


tender curiosity

by PaintedVanilla



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, Book Excerpts, Canon Related, Crush at First Sight, Drunkenness, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Partying, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Character, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: Nick Carraway had a talent for reserving judgements.





	1. Chapter 1

Nick Carraway had a talent for reserving judgements. 

He had no opinion about anyone; he had countless lists of observations, characteristic notes he had compiled, into such a vast collection he could probably write a novel about each person he encountered in his life. He was content to be quiet, observant and nonjudgmental; a background character in his own life. He didn’t consider himself very interesting at all. He was a plain man with a plain life, far more interested in listening to the stories of other people. Such a style of life could turn the most mundane of summers into books Nick quietly believed would be best sellers. 

What kind of book, he wondered, would the summer of 1922 be?

“A best seller,” Jordan insists, standing by his side over his desk. He doesn’t look up at her as she continues. “It would be a best seller, Nick. To not let anyone read this would be an absolute tragedy.”

Nick taps his fingers against his desk, his eyes never leaving the cover page of his manuscript. The first he’d ever completed. He mulls it over, then shakes his head. “I can’t publish it.”

Jordan heaves a quiet sigh, places a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, and she’s looking down at him sadly. “I know,” she says, her voice more gentle than it usually is. 

They lapse into silence, before Nick says, “Maybe I should just get rid of it.”

“No!” Jordan exclaims, startling him. “This is the best book I’ve ever read, Nick! I want a copy of it!”

Nick gives her a slight smile. “You were there.”

“I know,” Jordan says. “But the way you describe everything. It’s like you were never once focused on yourself. You captured every little detail I failed to notice. I want a copy.”

Nick looks down at the manuscript, pondering. Finally, he says, “I’m sure I can… make you one,” he looks back up at her, “maybe even with a proper cover.”

“I’ll read it every day,” Jordan promises, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Nick rolls his eyes, grinning as he picks the manuscript up, standing from his desk. “I’ll see about having one made,” he tells her. “I might be able to get it to you before your next tournament. You can take it with you.”

Jordan smiles at him, a rare vision, and Nick smiles back shyly. He looks down at his shoes. “A one of a kind.”

“No,” Jordan says, and he looks back up at her, puzzled. She’s looking at him with a knowing smile, her chin tilted up characteristically. “He’s going to want a copy.”

What felt like a million years ago, Nick had met her as she gave him the same look. A knowing smile, her chin tilted up high, as though she were balancing something on it. She had looked at him as though she saw directly through him, directly through every minute façade Nick had spent so many years putting up, and the insinuation had frightened him. He shrank into himself, intimidated by her knowing gaze, busying himself with anything else. He was suddenly there, embodied within that 1922 summer, and Daisy was grabbing his arm and looking at him with her charming gaze, a way she would never look at him again. 

“I know!” she cried happily, dragging Nick across the parlor towards Jordan, who had just stood stiffly from the divan. “This summer I’ll sort of, fling you and Jordan together! I’ll push you into linen closets, and out to sea in boats!”

“I’m not listening to a word!” Jordan said teasingly, saving Nick from having to comment on Daisy’s plan. When she finally let go of his arm, he took two tentative steps away from Jordan, who was looking at him knowingly again. Nick found himself nearly muttering out an apology, though for what, he was unsure.

Daisy caught the interaction, mistaking Jordan’s look for one of romantic interest. Before she could comment, Jordan spoke. “You live in West Egg,” she said to Nick, almost accusingly, and Nick nearly wilted. “I know somebody there.”

“I don’t know a single - ” Nick tried to say, but he was quickly silenced as she continued.

“You must know Gatsby,” she said, and her face remained hard, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.

Before Nick could comment that Gatsby was in fact his neighbor, although he had never met the man, Daisy interrupted, speaking as though she had been startled. “Gatsby?” she asked, her eyes wide, a rare sad look on her face. “What Gatsby?”

Dinner was announced then, and the sadness dropped from Daisy’s face as though she’d never known it, and the conversation was abruptly over, never to be continued. Nick was dragged through conversations for the rest of the evening, offering helpless replies to topics he could barely feign interest in. It seldom mattered, though, because as quickly as he could formulate a response to anyone, they were suddenly talking about something else. 

After dinner, Daisy brushed the somber moment shared between her and Nick under the rug like it was a well practiced hobby. Nick sat awkwardly in the parlor with the company, exhausted and longing to go home, but never knowing when the proper time to excuse himself was. Jordan rose from the couch with a hard elegance and stretched, and Nick looked away from her as though he was unsure if he was allowed to watch.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

Nick felt his face flame hotly with a blush. “Oh, you’re _Jordan_ Baker,” he exclaimed, uncharacteristically loud, embarrassed over not having recognized her sooner.

Rather than respond to his remark, Jordan turned on her heel towards the staircase and said softly, “Goodnight. Wake me at eight, won’t you?”

“If you’ll get up,” Daisy teased.

“I will,” Jordan assured her, then turned to look over her shoulder directly at Nick, who blushed fiercely at the attention. “Goodnight, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”

Nick couldn’t speak on account of how hot his face was, but lucky for him, Daisy spoke in his place. “Of course you will. In fact, I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick,” she added, turning to Nick and winking at him playfully.

“Goodnight,” called Jordan from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

Nick was caught between sinking so deep into the seat he would disappear into the cushions, and standing stiffly to leave as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to be rude, though, so he stayed seated as he was, perched awkwardly on the edge of the seat, not listening to whatever Tom and Daisy were going on about now. 

Once Nick had finally recovered and his face was no longer aflame, he was made aware of the loud silence penetrating their party. He swallowed, sitting up a little straighter and placing his hands on his knees. Unsure of where the conversation had gone, Nick decided to pick up where he’d stopped listening.

“Is she from New York?” he asked quickly, hoping the question wasn’t too out of place.

“From Louisville,” Daisy told him sweetly, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief. She continued. “ Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful, white - ”

“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.

Daisy evaded his question expertly, never once hinting towards what they had actually discussed. Nick wondered for a moment if Daisy ever let Tom in on the fact that she had more emotions than just happiness, but by the time he pulled himself out of that train of thought, the conversation had derailed, and Nick found space to excuse himself.

As they were seeing him off at the door, Daisy started suddenly, just as Nick started his car, and she came bounding down the front steps. “Wait!”

Nick looked up at her, startled; he didn’t say anything, but rather asked the question with his eyes, too tired to keep talking. Daisy leaned against the door of the car and batted her eyes. “I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”

Nick blushed deeply yet again, consumed with anxiety about the inquiry. Before he could muster up a response, Tom spoke. “That’s right, we heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s libel,” Nick said quickly, struggling to speak through his embarrassment. “I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

“It’s not,” Nick insisted, wishing he could drive away, but he couldn’t with Daisy leaned up against his car. He looked away, flustered. “I don’t know who you’re out talking to. I’ve never been engaged.”

Daisy finally pushed herself off the car. “Okay,” she said lightly, a playful smirk on her face. “I believe you… but I don’t really.”

Nick had hoped such a sentiment would stop Daisy’s plan of fitting him and Jordan together, but it made no difference. She invited him over relentlessly, only to toss him into rooms where Jordan had been lounging and leaving the two of them alone. It wasn’t that Nick didn’t think highly of Jordan; she was very beautiful, and incredibly charming, and simply wonderful, but Nick didn’t feel affectionately for her at all. 

Maybe he’d like to, he thought to himself, as she began taking it upon herself to invite him places, so Daisy didn’t have to do all the work. Nick was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion and everyone knew her name. But as much as he liked her, there was no underlying flame that inspired him to keep track of her. He never once felt compelled to reach out and take her hand, or to put his arm around her, or to kiss her. 

The thought of kissing her caused him to flinch suddenly, and Jordan looked at him curiously. “What?”

Nick looked at her, embarrassed, even though there was no way for her to know what he had been thinking about. Except, maybe there was; she still looked at him with that same knowing gaze, as though she knew anything and everything about him. Even now, after weeks of knowing her, such a thought made Nick want to sink into his chair and never be looked at again.

“Nothing,” Nick said quickly, and then before Jordan could comment, he stood and moved to the other side of the parlor, sitting down on the edge of another couch and crossing his legs.

Jordan watched him curiously, and then a smile crossed her lips. It wasn’t happy, though; it was some other emotion that Nick couldn’t quite place. He watched her as she stood and made her way over to him. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

“In bonds, now,” Nick said, for what felt like the millionth time. 

Jordan faltered, and for a moment her confidence seemed to waver, startling Nick. She recovered quickly, though, persisting with that same tone in her voice that made Nick feel uneasy. “You’ve still the spirit of a writer, though?”

Nick just shrugged, but when he realized that not responding was rude, said, “I can’t imagine anyone would want to read what I write.”

“Why do you say that?” Jordan asked, sitting down on the other side of the couch. 

Nick folds in on himself a little more. “I’m not very… good with words.”

“I’ve noticed,” Jordan said, and then laughed when Nick blushed. “That’s out loud, though. Surely you’re more skilled on paper. Everyone is.”

Nick put a hand on his neck, feeling how hot it was, then he said, “It’s just hard.”

Jordan looked at him curiously. “What’s hard?”

Nick wouldn’t look at her, instead letting his eyes wander around the room as though he were searching for something. “Romance,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It’s… difficult to capture. I’ve never been in love, so I… don’t know how to write it.”

Jordan stared at him. “So don’t write romance.”

Nick blushed deeply, still refusing to look at her. “I want to.”

Jordan smiled softly, but before Nick could notice it, she looked somber. A long moment of silence passed between them, and Nick felt washed with nerves for every second that ticked by, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Jordan looked over him, as though she were thinking deeply, and then with a tilt of her head, she leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Have you tried writing something… queer?”

Nick suddenly grew very agitated, standing from the couch and moving away from Jordan quickly. His palms were sweaty, and the blush on his face refused to dissipate. “Why would you say that?”

Jordan sat back, trying to stay calm. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I wouldn’t - I - ” Nick stuttered, too flustered to properly respond. “No one would publish it.”

“So write it for yourself,” Jordan suggested.

“I wouldn't know the first thing - !” Nick exclaimed, pacing back and forth. His face felt so hot he was sure it would catch on fire. “That’s ridiculous, Miss Baker, I don’t know why you would even suggest that. Why would you suggest that?”

Jordan only offered him a shrug when he looked her way, refusing to say anything. He looked away again, continuing to pace. “I couldn’t write that.”

“Why not?” Jordan asked softly.

“I just couldn’t!” Nick exclaimed, but there was no anger behind it, just embarrassment. “I - I wouldn’t know _how._ That’s - it - it’s ridiculous.”

“So you’ve said,” Jordan commented.

Nick looked back at her, trying and failing to look more determined; instead, he just looked flustered and miserable. “ _Why_ would you suggest such a thing?”

This time, Jordan didn’t even offer a shrug. Instead she looked him up and down, that same knowing look on her face, and suddenly Nick’s blush spread through his entire body. He felt hot everywhere, absolutely mortified as he realized what she was thinking. “I’m not queer!”

Jordan stood suddenly, her eyes wide. “Not so loud!”

“I’m not!” Nick insisted, his voice wavering with nerves. 

Jordan stepped forward, grabbing Nick’s arm with both her hands. “Nick, be _quiet_ ,” she pressed. “They’ll hear you.”

They, referring to Tom and Daisy, who at any moment could be a step away. Nick suddenly felt sick, anxiety pooling in his stomach at a rapid pace, and for a moment he worried he would be sick all over Jordan. He stepped away from her hurriedly, pulling his arm out of her grasp.

“I’m not queer,” he insisted, his voice hushed now but still frantic. “I’m not, I - I don’t know where you got the idea - !”

“Nick,” Jordan said, her voice steady. “It’s fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“I’m not freaked out!” Nick lied, obviously. 

“Nick,” Jordan said, with that same knowing look.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Nick snapped. “It’s - _that’s_ what’s freaking me out, just - I - I have to go!”

Nick was almost too nervous to drive, the shaking of his hands only steadied by their white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Lucky for him, there weren’t many people on the road between East and West Egg, so the only thing he had to worry about was not driving off the road, which he almost did several times.

Even in his own home, small enough that he would _know_ if someone else were there, Nick can’t bring himself to calm down. He paces around the house relentlessly, trying to keep his breathing steady. His face is still hot, mortification and anxiety still curled up in a ball in the pit of his stomach. Though it’s only mid-afternoon, he closes all his curtains, wracked with anxiety over being looked at. 

If Jordan can see it on him, who else can? Not that there’s anything to see on him - there’s nothing to see on him. Nick isn’t queer. Nick is not queer. He has never been and he never will be queer.

He ends up laying on his bed, on top of the duvet, still in his day clothes, the only thing removed his shoes. He has his knees pulled up to his chest, his hands holding them in place to keep them from shaking. He knows he looks foolish, laying in the fetal position over a ridiculous insinuation that isn’t even true. He can’t calm himself down, so rather than keep trying he simply shuts his eyes and forces himself to go to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

Nick avoided Jordan for several days, but he had more trouble avoiding the Buchanan’s. Daisy seemed to have gotten word from Jordan that a relationship between her and Nick was more on the treacherous side of things for the time being, so she stopped trying to push them into close quarters. Tom, on the other hand, was not so easily quelled. It seemed there weren’t many people who can stand to be around him for so long, which was how Nick found himself dragged through the valley of ashes, straight into acquaintance with Myrtle Wilson, and into a quaint little apartment that inspires anxiety in every crevice of his body.

Nick sat on the couch, his legs crossed, and with every moan that came through the wall of the bedroom, getting up and running for the door sounded more and more appealing. Finally, he decided leaving without saying goodbye couldn’t be more rude than having sex one room over from someone you hardly know. Nick sprung to his feet, eagerly grabbing his hat off the coat rack by the door, but when he opened it to slip out, he came face to face with Catherine, Myrtle’s sister.

She squealed when she saw him, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back into the room. Nick blushed deeply, stumbling backwards.

“I’m Catherine!” she exclaimed, pushing her hand up onto his shoulder to admire him. “Ain’t we havin’ a party?!”

Nick swallowed nervously. “Oh, I’m… I’m not sure now’s a good time. I was just going - ”

Another woman appeared at his side, squealing a greeting that Nick didn’t have time to respond to, because a man was suddenly on his other side, placing a hand on his shoulder in a manner similar to Catherine’s. “Chester McKee, pleasure to meet you.”

Nick blushed so hard he almost couldn’t respond. “Nick Carraway.”

Nick tried and failed to leave a second time, stopped again by Catherine, who grabbed him by his arm as he tried to slip past and pulled him back towards her. “What’s the matter? Don’t ya like me?”

Nick tried to backpedal, but before he could get the words out, Myrtle and Tom emerged from the bedroom, Myrtle dressed in a new outfit and Tom arrogantly buttoning up his shirt. In the short commotion their arrival caused, Nick slid back towards the door. Trying not to be rude, he called out, “Tom, I really should be going…”

Tom stepped through the small space easily, taking Nick by his elbow and pulling him back into the room. “Nonsense!”

Nick looked up at him nervously. “Tom, I don’t think - Daisy’s my - ”

Tom pulled him by his elbow further into the room, back towards the party. “Listen Nick,” he said sternly, “you like to watch. I remember that from college. And that’s okay, I make no judgment, but we’ve got a whole summer - do you want to sit on the sideline and watch, or do you want to play ball?”

“Play ball!” Myrtle cried.

“Yeah. Ain’t we good enough for ya?” Catherine asked with a wink. Nick had no chance to actually answer Tom’s question - he’d _much_ prefer to sit on the sideline and watch - before Catherine grabbed him and pushed him down into a vacant chair, trapping him there by climbing into his lap.

Nick blushed deeply as she leered over him, reaching up and taking his hat off. Nick looked to the side, trying to ignore what was happening, choked up by his mortification. 

Tom called out to him. “Nick! McKee’s in the artistic game!”

McKee looked at him intensely. “Photography.”

“Nick’s artistic,” Tom commented.

Nick swallowed. “No…”

McKee stepped towards Nick eagerly. “Really?”

Nick looked down at the floor to his left, still trying to avoid looking at Catherine. “Ah, no, well, I write a little…” 

McKee looked as though he were about to inquire more, but suddenly Tom had put on music, and Catherine placed a finger on Nick’s jaw and forced him to turn his head to look directly at her. “Do you live on Long Island, too?” she asked.

“I live at West Egg.” Nick said weakly.

“Really?” Catherine asked, her voice high. “I was there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby's. Do you know him?”

“I live right next door to him…” Nick said.

“He's a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. You know, the evil German king…” Catherine told him.

Before Nick could finish processing that, the conversation in the room changed topics so many times, Nick couldn’t keep track of what was happening until Tom was standing above the two of them, offering Catherine a drink. 

She waved him off. “No thanks; I feel just as good on nothin’ at all.” 

She leaned forward, too far into Nick’s personal space for his liking, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. She produced a small tin and opened it up, pulling out a pill and swallowing it without complaint. Nick watched her quietly, not commenting out loud or in his head. 

“Nerve pills,” Catherine explained, even though Nick hadn’t asked. “I get them from a doctor in Queens. You want one?”

Nick swallowed nervously. “My nerves are fine, thanks,” he lied.

Catherine smiled mischievously, then took another pill from the tin and placed it on her tongue. Without warning, she leaned forward and kissed Nick, startling him. He sputtered, which was a mistake, because it allowed her to slip her tongue into his mouth and force him to accept the pill. She broke the kiss then, and lifted a glass of whisky to his lips - where had she gotten that? It didn’t matter, because she tipped it up and forced Nick to take a sip, effectively washing down the pill.

Suddenly, it was dark out. Nick felt startled, finding himself very drunk. Even stranger than that, he found himself very _calm._ Calmer than he had felt in years, which was odd, considering the events happening around him. Catherine was still in his lap, unbuttoning his dress shirt, which should have been extremely alarming as he hadn’t let anyone see him in any state of undress since he was a small child. Myrtle was taking off her dress, proclaiming that it would be a gift to Mrs. McKee, since she liked it so much. 

Nick let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. As much as he disliked having Catherine in his lap, he had to admit the pressure was nice. She didn’t weight much, for a lady, but she weighed as much as any person, and it was a nice weight to have. It grounded him to the chair, which kept him tethered to the rest of the world as he stared up and let the party go on without him. Nick felt a serenity he had seldom felt any other time in his life, and he wanted to spend every moment he could in a blissful calm. 

He nearly fell asleep, when he was snapped back to reality by a shrill screaming. “Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Myrtle, storming through the small living room. "I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai - ”

In a short moment Tom had raised his hand and brought it down on her, breaking her nose. 

Myrtle screamed, and Catherine leapt out of Nick’s lap to rush to her. He sat up in the chair, wide eyed, watching the scene unfold and waiting for his well known anxiety to form a pit in his stomach. It never came, though, much to Nick’s shock, and he found himself distracted from the scene unfolding in front of him; all three women were shrieking at once, shrill voices shouting things Nick couldn’t decipher. They all sounded the same as Nick stood up out of his chair and made his way over to McKee, who had just awoken from where he’d been dozing.

Nick was unable to stop himself, and he reached out and wiped a bit of shaving cream off of his face. McKee started at the contact, looking up at him, and Nick felt his face warm in a blush but he didn’t feel embarrassed. 

McKee smiled, and then he stood from his chair and grabbed Nick by his hand and Nick hardly had enough time to grab his hat where it had been hung on the chandelier before he was pulled out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.

“Come to lunch someday,” McKee suggested.

Nick blinked. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

The elevator opened, but they weren’t on the ground floor; Nick wasn’t sure where he was. McKee grabbed his hand again, and Nick’s entire body felt washed with a warm feeling he couldn’t quite place. They stopped walking suddenly, and Nick swayed on his feet, struggling not to tip over. Finally, he had to lean on McKee for support; an awkward picture, considering how much taller Nick was than him.

McKee opened the door to his apartment, ushered Nick inside, and shut the front door in one swift movement. Nick searched for the words to thank him for his hospitality, but before he could find them, he was being pushed against the wall and kissed.

Nick’s heart leapt into his throat, beating so hard he could hear it in his ears, feel it in his finger tips. He was frozen, positively horrified, remembering the conversation he’d had with Jordan just days prior. He raised his hands to McKee’s shoulders, ready to shove him off and correct him; he’s not queer.

But Nick’s hands settled on his shoulders, and he didn’t push him off. Instead he rested them there, and he waited, and he pondered, and he still felt calm. His heart was beating faster than it ever had, but he still felt calm; calmer than he’d felt when Catherine kissed him earlier; calmer than he’d ever felt in Jordan’s presence; calmer than he was the day he had his first kiss back West. 

Nick enjoyed feeling calm. He enjoyed the feeling of kissing someone and feeling calm. So he kissed back.

Nick stayed calm for the rest of the evening, allowing himself to be pushed into McKee’s bedroom and undressed down to his boxers and undershirt, all the while continuing to kiss McKee as though he would never be allowed to kiss anyone again. Nick had seldom kissed anyone before, and even when he had, he’d hardly been able to stand it for more than a second. In that moment, as it faded in and out, Nick’s hands didn’t shake and his head didn’t hurt and his stomach wasn’t pooled with anxiety. 

Nick was dazed, a soft smile on his face as he let McKee push him down flat on the bed and pull him out of his boxers. He hardly registered anything that happened after that, except the occasional kiss pressed to neck and the absolute sense of bliss that washed over Nick as he came. He had never felt so wonderful, so at peace and so in place in all his life, but he hardly had time to thank McKee before he abruptly dozed off.

When Nick awoke, McKee was sitting between the sheets, his portfolio in his hands as he sifted through the photos. Nick squinted at the ceiling, his heart lurching in his chest as he failed to remember where he had fallen asleep. He looked to his side when he heart the rustling of card-stock, and there sat McKee, clad in his underwear and nothing else.

Nick’s entire body reacted to the realization that he, too, was wearing almost nothing. Dread and anxiety knotted in his stomach in such large quantities they might as well have been described as fear. The tips of his fingers went numb, as did his toes, as he sat up abruptly, startling McKee. 

Nick looked at him, then starkly remembered kissing him and being stroked off by him, and then he looked away and blushed so hard he thought he was going to faint. McKee didn’t seem to find this odd, instead holding out a photo printed on a thick paper. “This one’s called Old Grocery Horse.”

Nick didn’t look at it; he stood from the bed and grabbed his slacks from where they’d been discarded on the floor and pulled them on in a hurry. “I’m sorry,” he said, but it was difficult to speak because he felt as though he were about to cry. “I have to go.”

McKee took the photo back and put it back in his binder. “Alright,” he said, as though this were at all normal. “But we’ll get lunch?”

“Lunch?” Nick asked, his voice cracking. 

McKee folded his hands in his lap. “You said we’d go to lunch.”

Nick didn’t think it was possible for him to blush any harder. “No, I - I - I’m sorry,” he sputtered out, finding one of his shoes and putting it on without bothering to look for his socks. He found his other shoe and slipped it on as quickly as he could, tripping over himself as he did. 

He found his dress shirt rumpled up on the floor, and when he put it on it was wrinkled. He struggled for a moment, the buttons too small for him to do them up as quickly as he wanted to. When he was finally up to his collar, he realized he had make a mistake, buttoning the shirt wrong, and now it was lopsided. He didn’t have time to fix it, though; he didn’t want to spend another second in that room. He reached down and grabbed his hat off the floor where it sat near the bedroom door.

“I’m sorry,” he said again placing it on his head and choking back a sob. “I - I’m not queer.”

He ran out of the room, then, not wanting to see the undoubtedly disbelieving look on McKee’s face at such a statement. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark when Nick left McKee’s, but by the time he made it to East Egg, the sun was starting to rise. Figures, considering how long he had to wait for a cab this early in the morning, but even if he weren’t wracked with nerves, he wouldn’t have minded.

Nick obviously woke the staff knocking on the door; he hoped he didn’t wake Daisy or, God forbid, Tom. If Tom even made it back last night. 

The man standing at the door looked irritated with him, and normally Nick would feel bad, but he tried his best to swallow that down. “Is Miss Baker here?”

“She’s asleep,” the man said, as though everyone in the world should be. 

Nick didn’t have a watch, but he knew it was early. Rather than asking if he could wake Jordan, he said, “I need to speak to her. If I wait in the parlor, will you tell her I’m there when she wakes?”

The man reluctantly agreed, having recognized Nick from his other visits. Perhaps he realized that whatever it was, it must have been serious, otherwise Nick wouldn’t have bothered. Nick waited in the parlor for nearly three hours, never once managing to sit in the same spot for longer than a few moments. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t sit still; if he let his mind wander, he’d begin to recount last nights events. They replayed in his mind as a blur, now, but there were moments too sharply in focus for Nick’s own liking. He wished he had been drunker, something he never thought he’d say, but he would have done just about anything to get those memories out of his mind.

Just past eight, the parlor door opened, startling him. He turned around, half expecting to see the help, to be told to go home. Instead, Jordan was perched in the doorway, still wearing her pajamas, a robe tossed on as an afterthought. She looked surprisingly compassionate. 

Nick stood abruptly, awkwardly, and he’d never felt his skin crawl quite so much. “Miss Baker.”

Jordan blinked at him. “Nick.”

Nick looked down at his shoes, blushing furiously. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Jordan watched him for a moment. “Your shirt’s buttoned wrong.”

Nick switched his attention from his shoes to his shirt; he hadn’t yet fixed it from how he’d hastily buttoned it earlier. “Oh,” he said quietly, reaching up to try to fix it. It was hard to do with shaking fingers.

Jordan moved forward silently and took Nick by his arm, and he hardly noticed as she pulled him out of the parlor and down the hall. He only looked up when he heard the distinct sound of a door locking; he was standing in Jordan’s room, which was dimly lit, and she had let go of his arm. He turned to find her standing near the now locked door, and he swallowed nervously, blushing. 

“Nick,” Jordan said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Sit down.”

Nick didn’t; he seemed frozen in his spot, so she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him backwards until his legs hit a chair and he fell back into it. The movement reminded him too much of how Catherine had pushed him into a seat last night, and almost reflexively he brought one of his legs up, hugging his knee to his chest in an irrational effort to keep Jordan from sitting in his lap.

She looked at him strangely, sitting down on the edge of her bed near him. She didn’t say anything to him, which comforted and unnerved Nick at the same time. He didn’t know what to say; every sentence he started in his mind sounded awkward and ridiculous. He discarded every single one as soon as he’d thought of them. Time passed, though he was unsure how much, until finally Jordan said, “Do you want to write it down?”

“Huh?” Nick asked, and his own voice felt awkward in his throat.

“Write it down,” Jordan suggested. “Easier to write than it is to talk.”

Nick pondered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I… I’ll write it down.”

Jordan disappeared, then, and when she returned she handed Nick a pen and a single sheet of paper. She sat back down on her bed as he stood up and moved to the stool of her vanity, intending to use it as a desk. He started to form sentences in his head about what had happened, but the more he thought about it the more he thought Jordan would need context, so he resolved to start with the party. But how did he get to the party? Nick went back further in the day and washed himself in the details of how it had unfolded, and finally he put his pen to the paper and began the snippet.

_About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air._

Jordan watched him fill up the page, and then when he turned the paper over she scoffed lightly. “Jeez, you writing a novel?”

Nick paused at her comment, looking over what he’d written, and then he looked back at her. “I’m going to need more paper.”

Jordan sat on her bed until ten, watching Nick fill up nine pages. He grew incredibly agitated as he filled the last one up, and finally he seemed to give up and scribbled down a quick conclusion, before he gathered the papers up in order and handed them over to Jordan. He watched her anxiously as she read through them, his heart seizing at every slight change of expression on her face.

When she got to the last page, she read it, and then reread it, and finally she looked up at him. “Not a lot of detail about this particular encounter.”

Nick squirmed, looking away from her. Jordan looked out at the pages she’d strewn across her bed when she’d finished them. She gathered them up again. “Nick, this is… really good.”

“What?” Nick asked, looking at her confusedly.

“This story,” Jordan said. “It’s good. It’s detailed, it’s… crisp. I felt like I was there. It all really happened? You didn’t make any of it up?”

Nick felt a slight blush tinging his cheeks. “It all happened,” he assured her. “It _all_ happened.”

Jordan set the piles of papers down on her bed neatly and stood up, walking closer to him. “Nick, it’s… okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Nick said, flustered. He turned all the way around on the stool, his back to her, and put his head in his hands. “This would never be okay in a thousand years.”

Jordan put her hands on his shoulders from behind him; he didn’t look up. “You Catholic?”

“No,” Nick said miserably, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Then what’s the problem?” Jordan asked lightly. Nick made no comment, unmoving, so she sighed. In a far more hushed tone, she said, “Nick, there are plenty of queer people in the world.”

She moved her hands from his shoulders to the sides of his face, and she made him tilt his head up to look in the mirror. Nick stared at his reflection for a moment, then his eyes flickered up to look at Jordan’s. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw set and tilted up as it usually was, and suddenly Nick understood. In one moment, Jordan went from being the most intimidating person Nick had ever met, to the most comforting presence in the world.

He relaxed a little bit, some of the tension dissolving out of his shoulders. Jordan noticed, and a sly smile fell on her lips. “Better?”

Nick hesitated. “Maybe.”

She placed her hands back on his shoulders, and this time it was a welcoming presence. 

Most of the anxiety had drained out of his system, except for the minute amount that always remained, so Nick thought it best if he went home and tried to get some sleep. “I’ll call you a cab,” Jordan offered, walking back over to the bed and grabbing the stack of papers. “And get you a clip for these.”

“Oh, no,” Nick said, waving her off. “I don’t need those. You can keep them. Or, uh… burn them.”

Jordan pushed them into his hands despite his protests. “No,” she said sternly, “you’re keeping them. The beginnings of your manuscript.”

She lowered her voice into a whisper. “You’re gonna write me that queer romance,” she said, “and you’re gonna be the protagonist.”

Nick blushed deeply, but he didn’t protest. Instead, after a moment, he said, “I don’t have a love interest.”

Jordan smiled brightly, and the expression looked odd on her. Still, she looked nice, and Nick found himself smiling back. 


	4. Chapter 4

It couldn’t have been more than a week after that dreaded party, when Nick received an invitation to a party next door. Jay Gatsby had been hosting loud and elaborate soirees all summer, to the point where the commotion had become a sort of background noise for Nick. He never once considered it the kind of scene he would feel comfortable in, but Nick had received an invitation, after all.

_Dear Mr. Carraway, the honor would be entirely mine, if you would attend my little party tonight. I have seen you several times and had intended to call on you long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances prevented it._ \- signed _Jay Gatsby_ in a majestic hand.

Nick turned the elegant card over in his hands several timed, reading and rereading it. While the rest of New York simply turned up uninvited, Nick would at least have the comfort of knowing he was wanted.

Dressed up in white flannels, he went over to his lawn a little after seven and wandered around rather ill-at-ease among swirls and eddies of people he didn’t know. As soon as he arrived, he made an attempt to find the host, but the two or three people of whom he asked his whereabouts stared at him in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that Nick slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table - the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.

Nick spoke shyly to the bartender. “Do you know where I might find the host, Mr. Gatsby?”

He brandished his invitation; the bartender didn’t even look at it. “Mr. Gatsby? I’ve never seen him, sir. Why, no one has!”

He handed Nick a martini in what felt like an automatic manner; Nick took it awkwardly in one hand, tucking the invitation back into his breast pocket and taking a sip of the drink.

Nick was on his way to getting roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment, when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. When Nick saw her, he brightened, a wide grin blooming on his face as he moved towards her excitedly.

“Hello!” he called out; her eyes landed on him, and a curious smile played on her lips.

“What are you doing here?” she inquired, taking his arm and leading him back inside. 

“I was invited,” Nick told her, speaking loudly over the music.

Jordan leered at him, surprised by his statement. “People aren’t _invited_ to Gatsby’s.”

Nick produced the invitation proudly. “Well, I was! I seem to be the only one. I don’t even know Mr. Gatsby.”

A haughty East Egger slid up next to them, startling Nick. He grabbed onto Nick’s statement and said, “He was a German spy during the war!”

“A German spy?” Nick asked.

“The Kaiser’s assassin,” the man said, walking with them up the stairs; Jordan rolled her eyes at him. “I heard he killed a man once.”

Nick blinked at him. “That can’t be true.”

“It is!” the man exclaimed. “Kills for fun! Free of charge.”

“Well he’s _already_ richer than God,” Jordan pointed out, and Nick looked at her incredulously as the stranger peeled away, distracted by one of the millions of other party goers.

“You don’t believe he killed a man, do you?’ Nick asked, alarmed.

Jordan grinned wickedly. “Let’s go find him, and you can ask him yourself!”

Jordan dragged him by his arm through the droves of people, and the two of them bound up a winding staircase excitedly. The drink Nick had had in the garden put a damper on his usual anxiety, pushing it to the back burner as he and Jordan explored the magnificence of Gatsby’s manor. 

Jordan turned around to face him when they reached the top of the staircase. “ _Oh, Mr. Gatsby!”_ she cried, and Nick laughed as she grabbed his arm again and pulled him down the hall. “Shall I lead you into his clutches?!”

They exploded into a dark room; a library. Their laughter was cut short as a stout, middle-aged man leered towards them with unsettling intensity. When Nick caught sight of them he ceased immediately, feeling as though he were going to be reprimanded. The man did no such thing, instead crying out, “You won’t find him!”

“Find who?” Nick asked quietly.

The man didn’t answer him; instead he turned away back into the grand library. “This house and everything in it, are all part of an elaborate disguise. But Mr. Gatsby doesn’t exist!”

Jordan scoffed. “Phooey; I’ve met him!”

The man made a loud noise of disbelief. “Which one?! The prince?! The spy?! The murderer?! I’ve been wandering his halls drunk for about a week now - but no matter where I look, I can’t find anyone who knows anything _real_ about Mr. Gatsby.”

Jordan rolled her eyes, blithely dismissive. “Well I don’t care! He gives large parties, and I like large parties,” she placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, making a point to him. “They’re so intimate. At small parties, there isn't any privacy.”

Nick ignored her as she wandered away from him to explore the library. He spoke to the man. “But if that’s true, what’s all this for?”

The man pointed an accusing finger at him. “ _That_ , my dear fellow, is the question!”

There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden, old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, and a great number of single girls dancing individualistically. By midnight, the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz and between the numbers people were doing ‘stunts’ all over the garden, while happy vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins did a baby act in costume and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.

Nick followed Jordan around all night, and she held no qualms with this arrangement. Men came and went from her side, leaving much faster than they usually did when they noticed Nick at her side, her hand precariously draped around his for most of the evening. They acted as each other’s comfort blankets. Every now and then Jordan would lean in close to him to keep a particularly leering man off her case, and every so often she would supply Nick with a drink to keep his anxiety at bay.

They were dancing on the floor, surrounded by what felt like a million people. Nick was just tipsy enough to be completely enjoying himself, not worrying over every little thing that went wrong. He spun Jordan once, and as she laughed, said, “I didn’t expect all this.”

Jordan looked at him oddly, then shouted over the noise, “What did you expect?”

Nick smiled. “I don’t know!”

“Disappointed?” Jordan asked.

“Not in the slightest!” 

Nick spun her again, but as her hand came back down, a third reached in and grabbed it away from Nick. The East Egger from earlier threw Nick a glare. “Penny-less pantywaist!” 

Nick blinked, the smile still plastered on his face; he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. 

The East Egger began to lead Jordan through the crowd. “I’m stealing her away, Carraway!”

Nick found them separated by several bodies, then, and he immediately felt uncomfortable surrounded by so many people without Jordan at his side. He pressed forward through the crowd, trying to follow them. A new song erupted, though, and everyone around Nick cheered loudly and danced wilder, and he quickly lost sight of his friend. 

He made his way to the staircase, hoping if he looked down from the top, he would be able to spot her. Suddenly, a voice spoke near Nick’s ear, “Your face is familiar. Weren't you in the Third Division during the war?”

Nick didn’t look at the man, still fighting through crowds of people on the stairs. “Yes. The Ninth Battalion,” he said absently.

“I was in the Seventh. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before,” the man followed him up the stairs. “Having a good time, old sport?”

Nick couldn’t help his smile, then; he knew he was incredibly tipsy, which eased him, made it easier to speak his mind. “The whole thing’s incredible! I live next door!” he brandished his invitation, flashing it over his shoulder to the stranger. “He even sent me an invitation! But I still haven’t _met_ Mr. Gatsby! No one’s met him; they say he’s third cousin to the Kaiser and second cousin to the devil!”

Nick laughed loudly as he arrived on the landing. The stranger grabbed two drinks off a passing tray, handing one to Nick, who took it gratefully. “Thank you.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good host, old sport,” the stranger said, as Nick turned to face him fully. “ _I’m_ Gatsby.”

Nick’s face fell, a roaring blush spreading all the way to his neck. For a moment he could only stare, his eyes wide, as Gatsby smiled thoughtfully at him. Nick was vaguely aware of the fireworks going off in the background and he drank in the figure of the man in front of him. His smile, Nick thought, was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. It was rare, knowing and understanding, and so very beautiful. In an instant, Nick felt himself infatuated with his smile, and then with everything about the man. 

This lead Nick to panic, as his whole body felt warm and his heart began beating rapidly in his chest. “Oh - ” Nick stuttered, horribly embarrassed. “I - I’m very sorry - I… I’ve had so much to drink - !”

Gatsby looked at him apologetically, at which Nick could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “I thought you knew, old sport.”

Before Nick could respond, a shrewd looking man appeared at Gatsby’s side. “Excuse me, sir; Chicago on the wire.”

Gatsby nodded curtly, then flashed Nick another dazzling smile, consequently making him go weak at the knees. “If you want anything, just ask for it, old sport,” he urged. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”

He slipped past Nick, pressing a hand to his shoulder as he went, and Nick nearly swooned. He turned to watch him go, and in doing so ran straight into Jordan, who had watched their entire exchange from the staircase.

“Who is he?” Nick demanded. “Do you know?”

Jordan placed her hands on his shoulders to settle him. “He’s just a man named Gatsby.”

_A beautiful man named Gatsby,_ Nick thought, but decided this wasn’t the place to voice such a thing. “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”

“Now _you’re_ started on the subject,’ she answered with a wan smile. ‘Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man. However, I don’t believe it.”

Nick looked at her incredulously. “Why not?!”

Jordan shrugged, her eyes wide. “I don’t know, I just don’t think he went there!”

She leaned in close, suddenly, standing up on the tips of her toes to get close to his face. “What do you really think of him, Nick?”

Nick’s blush had just dissipated, but at her words it reignited, his whole face feeling hot. “I think he’s the most perfect man I’ve ever seen,” Nick admitted, just loud enough for her and only her to hear.

“I beg your pardon.”

Nick and Jordan both started, stepping apart and looking to their side, where Gatsby’s butler had materialized out of thin air. 

“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you.Alone.”

“With me?!” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes, madame.”

Jordan looked at Nick, who was staring at her with wide eyes that seemed to plead _don’t go._ She raised her eyebrows at Nick in astonishment, ignoring his silent plea and following the butler off.

Nick was alone and it was almost two. The large room was full of people. He wandered around in solitude, awkwardly awaiting Jordan’s return. Nearly an hour passed, and as it did he grew more and more aware of how heavy his eyelids felt, and how nice it would feel to escape such a large crowd. Nick finally resolved to leave, to call Jordon on the morrow and talk to her about the party then. 

As he waited for his hat in the hall, the door of the library opened and Jordan and Gatsby came out together. Nick’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched the two of them. He was saying some last word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say goodbye. Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she lingered for a moment to shake hands.

“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered as she passed Nick. “How long were we in there?”

“Why, about an hour,” Nick told her.

“It was simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it, and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully in his face. “You come and see me first thing tomorrow, okay Nick? Please come and see me…” She was hurrying off as she talked, her hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her party at the door.

Rather ashamed that on his first appearance he had stayed so late, Nick joined the last of Gatsby’s guests who were clustered around him. He wanted to explain that he’d hunted for him early in the evening and to apologize for not having known him when they met.

“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined eagerly. He placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat. Gatsby continued. “Don’t give it another thought, old sport. And don’t forget, we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

“Oh!” Nick exclaimed shyly, a blush creeping up his neck. “Oh, we are?”

“Yes!” Gatsby said happily.

“Another party? So soon?” Nick asked, wondering if he’d even be able to pull himself out of bed before noon.

“Oh, no,” Gatsby said, that same smile on his lips. “Just us, old sport, just us.”

The thought occurred to Nick that he could’ve dropped dead right there and died a happy man.

The butler was behind Gatsby’s shoulder. “Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.”

“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there,” he waved him off, then looked back to Nick with sparkling eyes. “Goodnight.”

Nick stared back at him, certain he would never be half as lovely. “Goodnight.”

He made no move to walk away, though, which made Gatsby chuckle a little bit. “Goodnight,” he said again, with a smile, and when Nick still failed to unstick his feet from the ground he took his hand off his shoulder and said, “Goodnight, old sport… Goodnight.”

Nick blinked, then abruptly snapped out of his trance and blushed deeply, taking two steps backwards. “Yes, goodnight,” he said quickly. “Thank you again!”

He made his way back across the lawn to his own quiet cottage, a warm and content feeling spread throughout his body. He shyly let thoughts of Gatsby consume him until he dozed off, his face hidden in his pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new drinking game: take a shot every time nick blushes

Nick’s anxiety woke him up at around seven, only giving him about four hours of sleep. He laid in bed for several moments, hugging his pillow to his face, wondering why he was awake. His stomach was tied in knots, more so than usual, and it took him several minutes to remember why. A memory from the previous night trickled in, and suddenly the entire evening exploded in technicolor, and Nick sat straight up in bed. A blush crept up his face at the memory of his appointment with Gatsby in just two hours, and for once he felt thankful for his anxiety’s interference with his internal clock. 

Nick made his way over to Gatsby’s just before nine, a familiar haze of nerves surrounding him that ignited every time Gatsby looked his way. The morning passed in a blur during which Nick couldn’t stop smiling; he was certain he blushed from the moment he arrived to the moment he left. He hoped Gatsby just thought it was a sunburn, or perhaps some sort of weird hangover symptom. 

He didn’t leave until the afternoon, Gatsby having insisted he stay for lunch. Normally, Nick could hardly stand being around people for such a long time, but being around Gatsby was addictive. Nick felt like he was somebody important; Gatsby never wanted to talk about himself, so he kept turning the conversation around to Nick. What Nick liked. What Nick was doing. Where Nick had been and where he was going. He slowly peeled Nick out of his shell over the course of a few hours, and he looked at Nick attentively and almost affectionately the entire time. 

“What do you do in the city, old sport?” Gatsby had asked.

“I’m a bondsman,” Nick had replied automatically. Then, after careful consideration, he corrected himself. “Well, I sell bonds, but what I really want to be is a writer.”

“A writer!” Gatsby had exclaimed, as though Nick had just said the most interesting thing in the world. “Are you writing a book?”

Nick hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally, a shot of confidence rushing through him. “It’s an… unconventional romance.”

Nick knew he should have felt exhausted, and yet somehow he didn’t. He’d spent all night at Gatsby’s party, not arriving home until three in the morning, and then he awoke after only four hours of sleep and spent the next several hours with him again. He should’ve been weary, irritable and aching to go be by himself. He was none of those things, though; Gatsby was intoxicating, and Nick wanted to spend every moment he could as close to him as possible.

He excused himself routinely, though, simply out of polite habit. Gatsby finally let him go around one, bidding him adieu with a flash of his dazzling smile and a promise that they’d get together again, soon. 

As soon as Nick was alone in his house, he couldn’t stand the silence. He knew he should try to get some sleep, or study, or do _anything_ that would normally ease his conscience, but instead he found himself flipping through the phone book.

“Hello?” Jordan answered on the first ring.

“Miss Baker!” Nick exclaimed formally, unable to suppress the enormous smile on his face.

“Nick!” Jordan returned, clearly excited. “Nick, I asked you to come and see me first thing today! It’s nearly two, where have you been?”

“I’ve been with him!” Nick said happily, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“With Gatsby?” Jordan asked, and Nick nodded before realizing she couldn’t see him.

“Yes,” Nick told her excitedly. “Yes, he invited me out last night, just before I left the party, and I went over this morning and he took me out on his hydroplane and then we had lunch.”

Jordan’s voice was hushed when she asked, “Was it like… a date?”

“Oh, no,” Nick said quickly. “No, no, no. I mean we - we were alone, it was just us, but it certainly wasn’t a date. No.”

Jordan hummed. “Did he tell you the thing?”

“The thing?” Nick asked. “What thing?”

“Oh,” Jordan said. “No, then I guess he didn’t. He told me to tell you what we had a talk about last night whenever you tell me to. But I guess he hasn’t told you the other half of the story, yet, so I’ll just have to keep it to myself.”

“What? No, tell me,” Nick insisted, insatiably curious now.

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Jordan said. “But tell me about your morning, Nick, tell me everything.”

Nick attended two more of Gatsby’s parties in the following weekends, always equipped with Jordan by his side, but he saw very little of Gatsby. When he did see the man, Gatsby still had little to say about himself, and he never told Nick _the thing._ Jordan always inquired after each of their meanings, and Nick always told her the truth, that whatever _the thing_ was, it hadn’t come up. Nick was itching to know exactly what it was, though he was too shy to ask Gatsby, and he refused to lie to Jordan, so he waited in silent agony.

At nine o’clock one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to Nick’s door and gave out a burst of melody from its three noted horn. Nick emerged from his little cottage, puzzled, still dressed in his robe. Gatsby was balancing himself against the dashboard, his charismatic smile making Nick’s heart skip a beat.

“Good morning, old sport,” he said warmly. “You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.”

This was the first Nick had heard of this, but he eagerly accepted the invitation and quickly got dressed. They hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit.

“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly. “What’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”

Nick looked at him in surprise. “My opinion?”

“Yes, yes, your opinion!” Gatsby exclaimed, evidently nervous. “I don't want you to get the wrong impression from all those bizarre accusations you must be hearing. A pack of lies, I assure you. You’ve heard the stories?”

Nick thought back to the night of their first meeting, where Nick had declared to his face he was third cousin to the Kaiser and second cousin to the devil. He blushed and nodded, not daring to speak. 

Gatsby continued. “I’m going to tell you something about my life. I’ll tell you God’s truth.”

He began his story, and Nick listened eagerly. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the middle-west - all dead now. I was brought up in America, but educated at Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”

He looked sideways at Nick, and Nick got the impression that in that moment, he was wracked with as much anxiety as Nick was at _any_ given moment. He understood, then, why Jordan didn’t believe him an Oxford Man. 

“What part of the middle-west?” Nick inquired casually.

“San Francisco,” Gatsby said quickly.

“I see.”

“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money,” Gatsby continued. “After that, I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe - Paris, Venice, Rome - collecting jewels - chiefly rubies - hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”

Nick bit back laughter, finding the story embarrassingly worn thin in it’s repetitiveness. Not any part of it sounded true, but Nick refrained from commenting as Gatsby went on. “Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest, I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration - even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”

Nick was reluctant to believe him, but without another comment, Gatsby reached into his pocket and pulled out a medal, dropping it into Nick’s palm. “There’s the one from Montenegro.”

Nick looked at it in surprise. It appeared authentic. _Orderi di Danilo, Montenegro, Nicolas Rex._

“Turn it,” Gatsby instructed.

Nick did so. _Major Jay Gatsby. For Valour Extraordinary._

“Here’s another thing I always carry,” Gatsby said quickly, reaching into the inside of his jacket and pulling out a photograph. “A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad - the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”

Nick took the photo gingerly, examining it. It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers, loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger, with a cricket bat in his hand. 

He handed both the items back to Gatsby, accepting their credibility. Gatsby took them, replacing them to where they had been before with satisfaction. “I’m going to make a big request of you today, old sport, so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”

Nick’s heart leapt in his chest at the thought of finally being let in on this secret. “At lunch? You’ll tell me at lunch?”

“‘No,” Gatsby said, and Nick’s face fell. “This afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to dinner. Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter”

Nick perked up again. “Is this the thing?”

Gatsby looked at him strangely. “The thing?”

Nick sank back down, embarrassed. “Miss Baker had mentioned there was… a thing that needed discussing. She said she couldn’t tell me what it was until you told me to tell her to tell me.”

He blushed even harder at his choice of words. “If that makes any sense.”

Gatsby smiled. “It makes plenty of sense, old sport,” he told him, looking back to the road. “Yes, I suppose this is the thing.”

In town, Gatsby led Nick into a barber shop, much to his confusion. Nick laid a hand timidly on his arm. “I thought we were going to lunch?”

Gatsby shushed him calmly, and Nick let go of his arm and followed him placably. In the center of the room was a tall, distinguished, grey-bearded man in an exquisitely cut suit, with gold rings on every finger. He was having his beard trimmed. Gatsby approached him respectfully. 

When he caught sight of Gatsby, he smiled. “Ah, my boy!”

They embraced while Nick stood awkwardly by. Gatsby stepped back, taking Nick directly by his hand and leading him forward, causing him to blush extraordinarily. “Mr. Carraway; my friend, Mr. Wolfsheim.”

Nick reached forward and shook his hand shyly; Wolfsheim watched him curiously the entire time. 

Gatsby guided the two of them towards the back of the shop, as Wolfsheim placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “A wonderful pleasure, Mr. Carraway. I know all about you.”

Nick blushed even harder, somehow. “Really?”

“Of course!” Wolfsheim exclaimed. “Mr. Gatsby is always talking about you.”

Nick grew incredibly flustered, unable to respond with anything beyond a shy smile. Gatsby rapped a coded knock on the back wall, and suddenly the wall slid open, and music poured out, startling Nick. Gatsby lead the way inside, Wolfsheim guiding Nick by his grip on his shoulder. “Come, join us for a little lunch!”

Nick was lead down to a table on the floor, sitting to the left of the two of them. Gatsby ordered as Wolfsheim examined him. “How is the bond business Mr. Carraway?”

Nick smiled politely. “It’s fine, thank you.”

“I understand you’re looking for a business negotiation - ” Wolfsheim began, but then Gatsby reached across the table quickly.

“No, no. This isn't the man,” he said. “This is the _friend_ I told you about.”

“Oh!” Wolfsheim exclaimed. “Beg your pardon, I had a wrong man. You’re the writer, aren’t you?”

Nick blushed slightly, smiling sheepishly. “Yes, I suppose.”

Wolfsheim patted Nick on the back, a wide smile on his face that did nothing to ease Nick’s nerves. “The queer romance?”

The color drained from Nick’s face so quickly, he grew dizzy, almost falling out of his chair. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, now, don’t grow flustered,” Wolfsheim assured him. “I’ll have you know I employ only the queer. They’re loyal. Have an appreciation for being protected and an understanding of how to keep a secret.”

He and Gatsby exchanged a knowing glance, and then Gatsby checked his watch and jumped to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me. I have to make _that_ call.”

Wolfsheim nodded, and as Gatsby left, he turned back to Nick, who was still too flustered to speak. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”

Nick swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Yes.”

“He’s an Oggsford man.”

“Oh!”

“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”

“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” Nick inquired.

“Several years,” Wolfsheim answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.”

Nick hadn’t been looking at them, but he did then. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.

“Finest specimens of human molars,” Wolfsheim informed him.

“Well!” Nick inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”

“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”

Nick looked at him nervously, and Wolfsheim looked back at him, as though he were waiting for him to ask the question swirling in Nick’s head. Finally, Nick choked out, “Is Mr. Gatsby… queer?”

Wolfsheim grinned wickedly. “Mr. Gatsby has his eye on a certain someone,” he informed Nick. “But I suspect he finds equal satisfaction in men and women.”

“Oh,” Nick said softly, sitting back in his seat. He was too intimidated to press for details.

Wolfsheim was still looking at him. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

Nick hesitated, blushing deeply. “Yes.”

“A perfect gentleman.”

“Yes.”

Gatsby returned to the table suddenly, startling Nick, who looked down at the floor, embarrassed. Wolfsheim drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.”

"Don’t hurry, Meyer," said Gatsby, without enthusiasm.

“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your young men,” he looked to Nick and winked, causing him to blush again. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”

He shook hands with Gatsby, and laid a parting hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I want a copy of that book.”

“Yes, sir,” Nick said automatically.

“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby once he’d gone. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York - a denizen of Broadway.”

“Who is he anyhow? An actor?”

“No.”

“A dentist?”

“Meyer Wolfsheim? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”

“Fixed the World’s Series?” Nick repeated. “How did he happen to do that?”

“He just saw the opportunity.”

“Why isn’t he in jail?”

Gatsby chuckled. “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”

Nick insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought his change, Tom suddenly loomed over their table, startling Nick. “Nick!” He exclaimed, clasping him on the back, which jerked him forward. “Where’ve you been!? Daisy’s furious you haven’t called up.”

Nick stood hastily, feeling as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”

Gatsby stood and reached across the table stiffly, extending his hand and shaking Tom’s with a strange intensity. “I’m so very, very _delighted_ to make your acquaintance.”

Tom shook his hand absently, hardly glancing at him. “How’ve you been, anyhow?” he demanded. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat? I wouldn’t have expected to find you in this temple of virtue.”

“I’m having lunch with Mr. Gatsby!” Nick explained, turning to face him, but Gatsby had disappeared.

Nick found Jordan on a rooftop garden that evening, frustrated as he made his way towards her. “What game are you and Gatsby playing at!?” 

Jordan looked up at him, surprised by his tone. “Please, Nick, sit down. This is a polite restaurant.”

Nick took a seat quickly, trying to avoid making a scene, but his voice still had an annoyed edge to it. “It’s all very strange! He picks me up in his fancy car, and he’s going on and on and on about his life and the war and rubies and Oxford and - ! What is the thing! What is this big request!”

“Nick!” Jordan exclaimed. “He just wants you to invite Daisy to tea!”

Nick blinked, surprised. “Tea? Daisy? And Gatsby? Why?”

Jordan sighed. “Well, I don’t know quite where to start. Listen, Nick, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Nick asked. “What for?”

Jordan spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “You’re quite… affectionate for Gatsby, aren’t you?”

Nick hesitated, then nodded. Jordan shook her head sadly. “Then you’re not going to like the request. You see… I met Gatsby, five years ago, in Louisville. It was the day I got my new English golf shoes. Daisy was by far the most popular girl with the Officers from Camp Taylor. One of them was in the car with her - it was Gatsby. And the way he looked at her… it’s the way _all_ girls want to be looked at.”

Nick watched her, enthralled, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

Jordan shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. Gatsby was sent off to war, but when the war ended, for some unknown reason, Gatsby couldn’t return. A year later, Tom Buchanan of Chicago swept in and stole her away. He gave her a string of pearls worth $350,000. But, the morning of the wedding, Daisy received a letter…”

“What did it say?” Nick breathed.

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me,” Jordan admitted. “That day, at five o’clock, Daisy Faye married Tom Buchanan with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville had ever seen. After the honeymoon, I saw them in Santa Barbara. It was touching, actually. I’d never seen a girl so in love with her husband.”

She looked at Nick cynically. “A week later, Tom crashed his car. The girl with him was a _chambermaid_ at the Santa Barbara Hotel. It got into all the papers.”

Nick looked away, pondering the story. Finally, he looked back to his friend. “It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? Gatsby’s house being just across the bay?”

Jordan laughed. “It’s no coincidence! He bought that house to be near her. He threw all those parties hoping she’d wander in one night. He constantly asked about Daisy, I was the first one who knew her.”

Nick looked away sadly. “All that for a girl he hasn’t seen in five years? And now he just wants me to have her for tea? The modesty of it…”

Jordan sighed. “Kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Nick said bitterly.

Jordan’s expression softened, reaching across the table and taking his hand in hers. He looked up at her shyly. “Nick,” she said gently. “I know it’s… difficult. It’s the most difficult thing in the world. But you’re going to be infatuated with so many people, Nick, and only one in a million of them will be like us.”

Nicks eyes widened. “He _is_ like us, though.”

Jordan leaned forward. “What? How do you know?”

“I had lunch with him and Meyer Wolfsheim today,” Nick explained. “Wolfsheim told me himself, he only hires people of… our stature. I asked him outright, and he said yes, but he only has eyes for Daisy.”

Jordan looked at him sadly. “Oh,” she said. “Nick, I’m so sorry.”

After dinner, down on the street, Nick held the door of a cab open as Jordan climbed in. Nick followed her swiftly. 

“Evening sweethearts!” the cab driver said warmly. “Where to?”

“Long Island, please,” Jordan said absently.

“Do you think I should?” Nick asked suddenly; Jordan looked at him curiously. “I mean, does Daisy want to see Gatsby?”

Jordan adopted a stern expression. “She’s _absolutely_ not to know. You are just supposed to invite her over so he can _happen to drop by_.”

Nick shifted nervously, looking out the window as the scenery whisked past. Jordan hesitated. “Of course… you don’t _have_ to do it, Nick.”

Nick looked over at her sadly. “I know,” he said. “But… if it’ll really make him happy…”

Jordan took his arm gently. “Nick,” she said. “You can’t live your life on those terms. What will make _you_ happy?”

Nick leaned down and whispered in her ear. “When he’s happy, I’m happy. There’s nothing in the world that’s ever brought me as much joy as his smile.”

He leaned away from her shyly, and she watched him sadly for a moment. Then, she leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Back home, Gatsby’s mansion was lit up beautifully, but it was silent. As he headed inside, Nick spotted him out on the lawn, and he found himself backpedaling. He was magnetically drawn to the man, much to his reluctance. Gatsby spotted him as he approached and hailed him nervously.

Nick stopped a few paces from him. “Your place looks like the world’s fair.”

Gatsby fidgeted nervously. “Does it? I’ve been glancing into some of the rooms,” he looked at Nick restlessly. “Let’s go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car.”

Nick shook his head. “It’s too late.”

“Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool?” Gatsby suggested. “I haven’t made use of it all summer.”

Nick shook his head again. “I’ve got to go to bed.”

Gatsby looked crestfallen; his outward distressed matched Nick’s own inner monologue. He hesitated for a long moment, before he took a tentative step forward. “I talked with Miss Baker.”

Gatsby snapped to his attention, and Nick swallowed and continued. “I’m… happy to do it, Jay. I’m going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.”

Gatsby looked distressed for a moment. “Oh, that’s alright. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“What day would suit you?” Nick asked quickly.

“What day would suit _you?”_ Gatsby corrected him, stepping closer. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.”

“How about the day after tomorrow?” Nick asked sharply.

“Day after tomorrow?” Gatsby repeated. He considered for a moment. “I’d want to get the grass cut.”

They both looked at the grass; there was a sharp line where Nick’s ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of Gatsby’s began.

“There’s another little thing,” Gatsby said uncertainly, and hesitated.

Nick looked down at his shoes. “Would you rather put it off for a few days?”

“Oh, it isn’t about that,” Gatsby assured him. “At least - why, I thought - why - look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?

Nick blinked at him. “Not very much, no.”

Gatsby smiled confidently. “I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my… you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of sideline, you understand? And I thought that if you don’t make very much… you’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport? Trying to write your first book?”

“Trying to.”

“Well, this would interest you,” Gatsby said. “It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.”

It occurred to Nick that under different circumstances, that conversation might have been one of the crises of his life. With anyone else, Nick would’ve run off right then, wracked with anxiety over such an offer. Instead, Nick cut him off with a rare surge of confidence. “‘I’ve got my hands full. I’m much obliged, but I couldn’t take on any more work.”

“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfsheim,” Gatsby assured him. “Unless… well, you know, unless.”

“No, I’d be suited,” Nick said, and even under so many layers of code, Nick thought he might throw up from admitting such a thing. He hurried on quickly. “I’ve got to go now, I’ve - uh - I’ve got, uh - sleep. You know?”

Gatsby nodded, turning away from him reluctantly. “Goodnight, old sport.”

“Yes, goodnight,” Nick returned, hurrying back across the lawn to his own quaint cottage.


	6. Chapter 6

Nick awoke the next morning feeling sick, though he knew it was only from his nerves. He waited about an hour for it to pass, because he didn’t want Daisy to worry when he called. Every time his stomach began to settle, though, he would pull his address book out and go to look up her number, and it would tie itself into knots again and he would have to sit back down.

He finally made the call around ten, still feeling nervous and hot, but determined to get this over with. Nick invited her over for tea the next day swiftly, without much motivation, and she accepted without question excitedly. 

“Don’t bring Tom,” Nick warned her.

“What?” 

“Don’t bring Tom.”

“Who is Tom?” Daisy asked innocently, and Nick couldn’t help his smile.

The weather on the day of matched Nick’s mood perfectly. It was pouring rain from the moment he woke up, and it never stopped. Every now and again it would lighten up, but then just as Nick thought it was passing it would double down in it’s efforts to soak the entire village. A lawn mower arrived at eleven to tidy up Nick’s lawn, and he left him to it. He drove over to West Egg Village in an attempt to get his mind off the looming events; even while he was there, he picked up cakes and flowers to bring back. Daisies. He figured she would enjoy the display.

The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt and gold-colored tie hurried in. He was pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked immediately.

Nick was confused. “The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.”

“What grass?” Gatsby inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” 

He looked out the window at it, but judging from his expression Nick didn’t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was ‘The Journal.’ Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?”

Nick could feel Gatsby was awash with anxiety, almost as severe as his own. He led him to the kitchen showed him the twelve lemon cakes he had bought earlier in the morning. “Will they do?”

“Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “…old sport.”

It continued to rain. Nick sat awkwardly on the edge of his couch, watching Gatsby pace back and forth restlessly. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Gatsby insisted each time he asked. There was an edge of nervousness and agitation to his voice. “Have you got everything you need?”

Nick looked around the room. “Perhaps more flowers?”

Gatsby cast him an embarrassed look. “You think it’s too much?”

Nick shook his head. “I think it’s what you want.”

“She’ll be impressed, won’t she, old sport?” Gatsby asked nervously.

“I am,” Nick assured him shyly.

Finally, Gatsby turned to Nick sharply and informed him uncertainly that he was going home.

Nick stood up quickly. “Why’s that?”

“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” he looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”

Nick frowned, his anxiety fostering frustration. “Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”

He sat down, miserably, as if Nick had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into the lane. They both jumped up and, Nick went out into the yard without another word. Under the dripping bare lilac trees, a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at Nick with a bright ecstatic smile.

“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”

The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek and her hand was wet with glistening drops as Nick took it to help her from the car.

“Are you in love with me,” she said low in his ear. “Or why did I have to come alone?”

“That’s the secret of Carraway Castle,” Nick assured her with a smile. “Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour, please.”

“Take an hour, Ferdie!” Daisy exclaimed; then to Nick, “His name is Ferdie.”

Nick led her inside, taking her coat at the door and placing it on the rack. He watched her closely as she went ahead, approaching the junction to the den. When her eyes fell on the room, she gasped, and Nick’s stomach seized with nerves. 

Daisy’s face had taken on a look of wonder, not unlike how she normally looked when she saw something she enjoyed a bit more than usual. “Oh - !” she exclaimed softly. “Oh, my goodness. I… I can’t believe it.”

Nick watched her trying to keep a sad look off his face, when she looked to him suddenly, a charming smile on her lips. “Did you ransack a greenhouse?”

Nick frowned. “What?”

He followed her into the den, surprised to find that it was still filled with flowers, but Gatsby was gone. “Well, that’s funny!”

“What’s funny?” Daisy asked lightly, inspecting the bouquet of daisies Nick had bought himself.

Nick struggled to think of a response, but before he could do anything, there was a loud knock at the door. Daisy looked unbothered by it. 

“Excuse me,” Nick said politely, leaving her alone in the den.

When he opened the door, Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into Nick’s eyes. Nick frowned at him, frustrated. “What are you doing?!”

Without a word, he stalked past Nick into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire and disappeared into the living room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of his own heart, Nick pulled the door to against the increasing rain. 

Daisy, her back to the door, was still marveling at the flowers; she turned at the sound of footsteps behind her. Her eyes landed on Gatsby, and she gasped sharply. The reunited lovers stood, staring at each other for a long, surreal, moment of disbelief. Gatsby, eyes locked to Daisy’s, was drowning in emotion. 

Daisy finally managed an artificial, choking murmur. “I’m certainly glad to see you again.”

A pause; it endured horribly. Nick had nothing to do in the hall, so he went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting frightened but graceful on the edge of a stiff chair.

“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand.

“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said.

Nick’s face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. He couldn’t muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in his head. “It’s an old clock,” he told them idiotically.

Daisy leaned forward, desperate for small talk. “Lovely, though. A lovely clock.”

“We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be.

“Five years next November.”

The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set them all back at least another minute.

Nick got the tea and the cakes and they sat awkwardly in the den for several more moments. Finally, at the first possible moment, Nick made an excuse and got to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.

“I’ll be back,” Nick said vaguely.

“I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go!” Gatsby said hurriedly. He followed Nick wildly into the kitchen, closed the door and whispered: ‘Oh, God!’ in a miserable way.

“What’s the matter?” Nick asked earnestly.

“This is a terrible mistake,” Gatsby said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.”

“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” Nick assured him. “Daisy’s embarrassed, too.”

“ _She’s_ embarrassed?” Gatsby repeated incredulously.

“Just as much as you are.”

“Don’t talk so loud.”

They were standing so close, and fleetingly it occurred to Nick all he would have to do is lean forward and down a bit to press a kiss to his lips. Instead, his frustration overtook him. “You’re acting like a little boy! Not only that, but you’re rude! Daisy’s sitting in there all alone!”

Gatsby raised his hand to stop his words, looked at Nick with unforgettable reproach, then opened the door cautiously went back into the other room. Nick hesitated, then decided against rejoining them; instead he went out the back way and stood under a tree in the lawn whose leaves made a canopy, guarding him from the rain, which hadn’t let up. Nick stood under the tree miserably for half an hour, with nothing to look at but Gatsby’s enormous house. Finally, he couldn’t stand to be left alone with his own thoughts; he traversed back across his lawn and reentered his house. The rain still hadn’t let up.

Nick made every possible noise in the kitchen short of pushing over the stove, trying to alert Gatsby and Daisy of his presence before he walked back into the den. Neither of them heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other as if some question had been asked or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when Nick came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation, a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.

His face brightened when he saw Nick. “Oh, hello, old sport!” he said, as if he hadn’t seen him for years. Nick thought for a moment he was going to shake his hand.

“It’s still raining,” Nick said gingerly.

“Is it?” Gatsby asked, looking out the window. “What do you think of that? It’s still raining.”

“I’m glad, Jay.” Daisy said. Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. For a moment, Nick was abhorred by how gorgeous Gatsby’s named sounded in her voice; he forced the feeling down as a blush rose on his face.

“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” Gatsby said suddenly. “I’d like to show her around.”

Nick blinked in surprise. “You’re sure you want me to come?”

“Absolutely, old sport,” Gatsby said warmly, and he flashed his smile at him and Nick was helpless to protest.

Daisy went upstairs to wash her face while Gatsby and Nick waited on the lawn. 

“My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light?”

Nick didn’t look away from Gatsby’s face. “Splendid.”

“Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”

Nick tilted his head. “I thought you inherited your money.”

“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic - the panic of the war.”

He hardly knew what he was saying, for when Nick asked him what business he was in he answered “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t the appropriate reply.

“Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” 

He looked at Nick with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?”

Nick looked away sharply and refused to answer him.

Daisy came out of the house; two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. Instead of taking the short cut along the Sound, they went down the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms.

“I had the gates brought in from a castle in Normandy,” Gatsby declared.

Daisy let out a delighted cry. “Oh, Jay! Its so grand!”

“Do you like it?” Gatsby asked.

“I love it!” she exclaimed. “But how do you live here all alone?”

“I don’t,” Gatsby assured her. “I keep it always full of interesting, celebrated people, such as yourself.”

Daisy ran ahead, enchanted. Standing in the entrance, Gatsby looked over at Nick; Nick looked at him, expecting him to say something else about the grandeur of it all, or the beauty of Daisy. Instead, a look of immeasurable sadness flickered over Gatsby’s face, so quickly Nick couldn’t be sure if he saw it at all.

“Come on you two!” Daisy cried from up ahead. “I want the royal tour!” 

Gatsby snapped to attention, his charming smile slipping onto his face effortlessly. He followed her to the entrance, and Nick trailed behind him sadly.

Inside as they wandered through Marie Antoinette music rooms and Restoration salons, Nick felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until they had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of ‘the Merton College Library’ Nick could have sworn he heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter. 

They went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers. Finally, they came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath and an Adam study, where they sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall.

Gatsby hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and in turn Nick hadn’t once ceased looking at him.

His bedroom was the simplest room of all, except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. 

“It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said miserably. “I can’t - when I try to - ”

He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning laughter, he was consumed with misery at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.

Before Nick could comment on the tears brimming in his eyes, Gatsby jumped up. Recovering himself swiftly, he opened two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. 

“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes!” he exclaimed, catching Daisy’s attention again. “He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”

Nick stood in silence as he took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one. Shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-colored disarray. 

“Jay!” Daisy exclaimed.

With growing enthusiasm, Gatsby tossed down more shirts. “These are silk! Linen! Indian flannel! Egyptian cotton!”

Daisy leapt onto the bed, intoxicated, her arms outstretched. “No, Jay, you’ll ruin them!” she turned to Nick, her eyes sparkling with her smile. “Nicky, he’s a mad-man.”

Nick regarded her quietly, abstaining from commenting. 

While Daisy admired, Gatsby brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher - shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange with monograms of Indian blue. Suddenly with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. Nick had half a mind to join her.

“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such - such beautiful shirts before.”

After the house, they were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane and the midsummer flowers, but outside Gatsby’s window it was still raining heavily, so they stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the sound.

“If it wasn’t for the mist, we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.”

Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.

Nick wandered away from the two of them. He began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted him, hung on the wall over his desk.

“Who’s this?” Nick asked loudly, impelled to remind Daisy and Gatsby of his presence. “Your father?”

Gatsby looked to him attentively, then slipped away from Daisy to join him by the photo. “No, no. That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport. He's dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.”

There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau - Gatsby, with his head thrown back defiantly - taken apparently when he was about eighteen. Nick spent several moments admiring it silently.

“I adore it!” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour - or a yacht.”

Nick adored it, too, but he refrained from commenting. 

The phone rang and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes… Well, I can’t talk now… I can’t talk now, old sport… I said a _small_ town… He must know what a small town is… Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town…”

Daisy wandered away from him, to the window. Suddenly, her face brightened, and she turned to Nick. “Come here! Quick!”

Nick stepped to her side as Gatsby finished up on the phone. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.

“Look at that,” she whispered. “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”

Nick looked down at her sadly, but wiped the expression off his face when she beamed up at him. He smiled back forcefully.

“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby suddenly, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.”

In the music room, Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room where there was no light, save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.

Outside, the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the sound. Nick sat alone, his legs crossed, switching between listening to the piano and the rain outside. Every now and then his gaze flickered to Gatsby and Daisy, curled up on the couch together. Nick looked down at the floor, a furious blush on his face, and he decided it was time to excuse himself.

As he went over to say goodbye, he saw that the expression of misery had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams - not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

As Nick watched him, he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. That voice held him most with its fluctuating, feverish warmth. It couldn’t be over-dreamed. That voice was a deathless song.

They had forgotten him, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know him now at all. Nick swallowed back his own misery and looked once more at them, and they looked back at him, remotely, possessed by abstract life. Then Nick went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.


	7. Chapter 7

For several weeks, Nick didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone. Mostly, he was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to keep himself distracted, but finally he went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. He hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. They were a party of three on horseback - Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding habit who had been there previously.

“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby standing on his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.”

_As though they cared!_ Nick thought bitterly.

“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.”

Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom. “I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.”

“About two weeks ago.” Gatsby prompted.

“That’s right.” Tom said. “You were with Nick here.”

“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.

“That so?”

Tom turned to Nick.

“You live near here, Nick?”

“Next door.”

“That so?”

Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either, until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?”

“Certainly!” Gatsby agreed. “I’d be delighted to have you!”

“Think we ought to be starting home,” Mr. Sloan said sternly.

“You’ll be coming to the party, won’t you, old sport?” Gatsby asked hopefully once they’d left.

Nick blinked at him, surprised. “You’ll really be throwing another?”

“Of course!” Gatsby said. “Of course, of course, old sport. Why wouldn’t I?”

Nick looked away shyly. “I thought… well, Jordan - Miss Baker said you threw all those parties hoping Daisy would wander in. You already have her, so what’s the point?”

Gatsby hesitated, a bleak look on his face. Finally, he asked, “Well, you like the parties, don’t you, old sport?”

Nick blushed. “I suppose.”

“Then it’s settled!” Gatsby said quickly. “There’ll be one, and of course you’ll be invited, Nick.”

Nick blushed harder, looking away. He couldn’t recall any other time Gatsby had addressed him by his name. 

Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness; that night was different from all the others. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-colored, many-keyed commotion, but there was an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. 

They arrived at twilight, Daisy on Tom’s arm and Jordan on Nick’s. As they strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.

“These things excite me _so_ ,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a dance card. I’m giving out dance - ”

“Look around,” suggested Gatsby hurriedly, and Nick could sense a great deal of anxiety on him.

“I’m looking around,” Daisy assured him. “I’m having a marvelous - ”

“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about?” Gatsby asked quickly.

Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said. “In fact I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.”

“We’ve got a great band here,” Gatsby said suddenly. “Have a look around. Excuse me.”

He rushed off then, and Nick watched him go until he couldn’t see him through the crowd anymore. Tom sneered, leaning down to Daisy’s ear. “A lot of these newly rich people are just filthy bootleggers.”

“Not Gatsby,” Nick said quickly, before Daisy could. “He’s a businessman.”

“Hah! A businessman!” Tom laughed.

“He owned a lot of drug stores,” Nick insisted; Jordan laid a calm hand on his shoulder, and he took the hint and bit his tongue.

Gatsby returned, and as he approached Nick saw that look on his face, again. Something miserable and exhausting was consuming him, but he wiped it away with a flash of his charming smile as he rejoined the group. 

Daisy and Gatsby danced. Nick was surprised by his graceful, conservative fox-trot; he had never seen him dance before. Nick caught himself staring at the pair, stupidly wishing he were in Daisy’s spot. His heart seized at the thought, fluttering for a moment at the image of Gatsby dancing with him under the eyes of so many people. Then, in an instant, he grew incredibly agitated, reminded that that wouldn’t be the case, now or ever. 

Jordan slipped her hand over his suddenly, startling him. “Dance with me?” she asked, and Nick looked up at her and managed a smile.

They danced; Nick normally wasn’t much of a dancer, but he eagerly made an exception for Jordan. She made parties much more enjoyable, and the aching of his heart much easier to forget about. But after several songs, Nick found himself growing weary. Even Jordan’s presence wasn’t enough to keep Nick’s anxiety and exhaustion at bay, and finally he peeled away.

“I’m going to steal away for just a minute,” he promised her, knowing he’d be gone for much longer than that. “Enjoy yourself without me, though. I don’t mean any trouble.”

Jordan watched him go solemnly, but made no comment. She turned back to the crowd and danced alone. Nick wound up the stairs they’d bound up together at that first party, and he entered the library in a much quieter manner than he had that evening. It was empty, tonight; no wild old men or queer friends exploring. Just Nick and his thoughts, and as many books as he could read.

He found one that interested him, and then sat and tried his best to read it. Every few paragraphs, his mind began to wander, and then after several minutes he would catch himself staring at the ceiling, thinking about Gatsby, and he would have to snap his attention back to the book. 

After an hour, Nick had only made a few pages progress, and he was trying to refocus on the book when the door to the library suddenly burst open. Nick sat up, watching as Gatsby quickly closed the door behind him; he was alone. That misery Nick kept seeing take his face in short bursts suddenly consumed his entire being and he leaned against the door. He looked exhausted, and Nick’s whole heart ached.

What was this strange misery over? Gatsby had Daisy, he had his money, he had everything he could ever possibly need. So why was he miserable? What reason did he have to be retreating to his library in the middle of such a spectacular party?

Then again, that was exactly what Nick was doing.

He stood up, setting the book down. “Jay?”

Gatsby jumped, turning around to face him; he looked as though he were making every effort to look composed. “You scared me, Nick.”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Are you alright?”

Gatsby struggled for a moment; he flashed Nick a smile, and for just a second he looked like the happiest man in the world, but then he dropped it and that misery seeped back into the cracks and crevices. “No.”

Nick frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s all gone wrong,” Gatsby said in a hushed voice. He locked the library door and walked forward, pacing through the space in the middle of the room. “Everything’s gone wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“What’s gone wrong?” Nick asked.

“Daisy,” Gatsby said, and then didn’t offer any further context.

Nick could vaguely understand why; Daisy wasn’t having a good time. She was appalled by West Egg - appalled by its raw vigor that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short cut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.

“I’m sorry,” Nick offered, keeping his distance. “Perhaps she just isn’t much for parties. She seems to enjoy smaller crowds more, I’ve noticed.”

“No,” Gatsby said sternly.

“No?” Nick repeated, confused.

“It’s not just the party,” Gatsby said. “I know she doesn’t like it. I know she’s not having a good time. And I don’t care!”

Nick frowned, confused. “What?”

“I don’t care!” Gatsby cried loudly; he stopped his pacing, turning on his heel to face Nick. “I don’t care about her! It’s not the same, Nick, it’s not… _she’s_ not the same…”

Nick hesitated. “Well, certainly you didn’t expect her to be, after five years?”

Gatsby shook his head. “I have felt the same for nearly five years. An unwavering adoration. The mere _thought_ of her was enough to infatuate me, consume me. She looks the same, she talks the same, she _is_ the same. But she loves that… Tom Buchanan - God, forbid, I can’t see _why,_ but she does, and I’m… unbothered. All those years came to a crescendo and it was so terribly disappointing… she hasn’t changed. I have.”

“Well, of course you’ve changed,” Nick said. “Everyone changes, Jay. _I’ve_ changed severely within the last three months. It’s not your fault.”

“No,” Gatsby said, then looked sternly at him. “It’s yours.”

Nick wilted. “What?”

“This is your fault,” Gatsby said, stalking towards him. “When everything came to a head with Daisy, I felt absolutely nothing for her, and it’s _your_ fault.”

Nick, easily taller than Gatsby by several inches, shrank under his gaze; he wanted to disappear into the ground, to melt straight through the floorboards and vanish from Gatsby’s sight forever. The intensity of the blush on his face convinced him he might.

“I’m - sorry,” Nick said, his voice soft and sad. “I’m sorry, I - I’m sorry, Jay, if I had known I was messing things up, I would have stayed out of your way. I would’ve let Jordan help you, I would’ve stayed away, I would’ve kept to myself. I’m so sorry.”

Gatsby shook his head. “You’re doing it again.”

Nick blushed even harder, and he quickly began to step around Gatsby. “I’m sorry. I should go.”

“No!” Gatsby cried; he grabbed Nick’s arm and pulled him back in front of him, holding him in place with a hand on each of his wrists. “No, no, Nick, you’re not understanding.”

“I understand plenty,” Nick insisted, trying to take another step away from him.

“No, stay, please!” Gatsby exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I’m horrible at this Nick, I really am. You’ve done nothing _wrong,_ you’ve just helped me understand.”

Nick stared down at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I wanted to repeat the past,” Gatsby explained. “I wanted to go back. Before the war. Before Daisy was married and before everything that separated us happened. I wanted Daisy to love me and only me. I wanted her to admit she never loved Tom, but she _does_ love Tom, and I understand that now. She loved Tom. And she loved me, too. You can’t repeat the past.”

Nick was quiet. “No. I suppose you can’t.”

“I loved Daisy,” Gatsby said. “But I don’t anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said quickly.

“Don’t be!” Gatsby said quickly. “Don’t be, Nick. I’m _so happy._ So happy I met you, so happy you stumbled into this with me. All those moments this summer I spent with you, they spurred me forward into this plan. I kept thinking that warm feeling I felt was for Daisy - it was _always_ for Daisy. But when I laid eyes on her it wasn’t there. I was so confused - it had been there all summer, this warm, beautiful affection that bloomed in my heart. It wasn’t there for her. It was there for you.”

Nick blushed furiously, sputtering. “Me?!”

“Yes,” Gatsby said, with his smile that made Nick’s heart pound. He moved his hands from Nick’s wrists and intertwined their fingers, and for a moment Nick thought he was going to faint. “That affection I feel is for you, Nick. I want to impress _you._ I don’t think I really threw this party for Daisy; I threw it for _you.”_

Nick stuttered for a moment, blushing so hard he couldn’t speak. After several seconds without a reply, Gatsby’s smile faltered. “Oh, God,” he said. “Did I read this wrong - ?”

“No, I’m queer!” Nick exclaimed loudly, then immediately blushed harder at the look on Gatsby’s face. “Oh, God, I shouldn’t have shouted that, I’m sorry.”

The smile had resumed it’s place on Gatsby’s face. “Can I kiss you?”

That was too much for Nick; his knees went so weak at the prospect of leaning down and kissing Gatsby, they gave out underneath him all together. He caught himself by grabbing onto Gatsby’s arm; Gatsby caught him just barely, looking startled.

He helped Nick sit down on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, God, no,” Nick said hurriedly. “ _I’m_ sorry, I just - I get so flustered and so embarrassed sometimes I can’t talk. Or… stand, apparently.”

Gatsby smiled, sitting down next to him on the couch, so close their shoulders pressed together. Nick was quiet for a long moment, then he tentatively reached down and took Gatsby’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“If this is a dream, please tell me now,” Nick said softly. “At least then I’ll be a little less disappointed when I wake up.” 

Gatsby leaned forward. “Not a dream,” he murmured, and then kissed him.

Nick nearly melted, leaning into the kiss breathlessly. He hadn’t kissed anyone since that awful apartment party with Tom and Myrtle - unless the one Jordan pressed to the corner of his mouth counted. And truthfully, Gatsby was a much better kisser than McKee. 

They stayed like that for a long moment; Nick turned and placed his hands on Gatsby’s shoulders, and Gatsby placed a hand on his waist, and they kissed until Nick jerked away with a sudden surge of anxiety. “If someone walks in - !”

“I locked the door,” Gatsby reminded him calmly, and Nick allowed himself to be pulled back down into another kiss.

A half hour passed, and they split the time between kissing and simply sitting on the couch, holding each other. In a quiet moment, Nick placed a kiss to his jaw, then said quietly, “I feel such a tender curiosity for you. Everything about you is so grand. You’re not just Jay Gatsby; you’re The Great Gatsby. I want to become infatuated with every piece of you.”

Gatsby felt guilty for a fleeting moment, then said, “You really are a writer. Such a way with words.”

Nick blushed, hiding his face in the crook of Gatsby’s neck. “Sorry. That was a silly thing for me to say.”

“Not at all,” Gatsby assured him. “As much as I want to spend every minute of the night here with you, I do need to check on our guests.”

“Oh, yes,” Nick said quickly, peeling himself off Gatsby. “Of course. I’m sorry for keeping you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Gatsby assured him warmly. “Never be sorry.”

Nick blushed, standing from the couch and looking down at his shoes. “Tom and Daisy will probably be on their way soon, if they aren’t already gone. I should probably see them off.”

“And your little sapphic friend?” Gatsby asked from the couch.

Nick looked at him in surprise. “Oh, yes, uh,” he hesitated. “If she’s not gone, I’d… like to get in one more dance with her.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Gatsby said. He checked his watch, then sighed and said, “I’ve got to make a bit of a lengthy call. Will you stay until I’m free again?”

“Yes,” Nick said immediately; Gatsby flashed a smile at him, and Nick blushed. “I’m going to, um… go rejoin Jordan.”

“See you in a bit,” Gatsby called after him as Nick made his way to the library door. He unlocked it, slipped out into the hallway, and shut it behind him. He stayed there for a moment, processing everything that had just happened in such a short half hour, and then an enormous smile broke out on his face. 

He hurried from the library back out onto the main floor, which was still crowded with people. There were still plenty out on the dance floor, much to Nick’s relief as he spotted his party. Jordan, Daisy and Tom were seated at a table by themselves; Jordan looked as though she were trying to make smalltalk, but Tom and Daisy looked as though they were itching to leave any minute now. 

Jordan was in the middle of saying something when she noticed Nick walking over to their table lively, beaming. She perked up curiously, but had no time to ask him what had him in such a good mood before he was there next to her, taking her hand excitedly and helping her out of her chair.

“Miss Baker!” he said happily. “I beg your pardon, but I need just one more dance with you before you go. It’s urgent.”

“Alright,” Jordan said lightly, grinning as Nick pulled her towards the dance floor.

“Nicky,” Daisy said playfully, turning in her chair to watch them go.

“I’ll get you next, Daisy!” Nick cried happily over his shoulder. “Pen me down on your dance card!”

“What has you in such a good mood - !” Jordan started to ask, but as they made it to the dance floor Nick hugged her close to him and spun her around. She squealed uncharacteristically, laughing as he set her down and took her hands to dance with her.

He leaned in close so only she could hear, although no one was paying attention to them. “He kissed me!”

Jordan’s eyes went wide. “He did?!”

Nick nodded, and Jordan followed up with, “ _He_ did?!”

“Yes!” Nick said happily. “That’s where I’ve been for the past thirty minutes!”

“Oh, my God, Nick!” Jordan cried, throwing her arms around him for a hug. 

Nick and Jordan finished the song out together, dancing excitedly, neither unable to stop smiling. When the next song began, Nick ran back to the table to retrieve Daisy, who happily let him lead her out to the dance floor.

“I’ve never see you so lively!” she exclaimed as he spun her around. “What has you so in love, Nicky?”

“It’s my own secret,” Nick told her with a smile, and she laughed her charming little laugh.

Two more songs and Tom had had enough. He stood at the edge of the dance floor as Nick led Daisy back over to him, standing as she took his arm and sighed. “I think Nicky is in love.”

Nick smiled, blushing deeply. “Maybe I am.”

Daisy let out a happy sound. “Oh, I just knew I’d fling you together!” she said happily. “I just new Jordan was the girl for you!”

Nick sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car, still smiling. It was dark; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass.

“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger, I’m sure of it.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Nick inquired.

“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know,” Tom said.

“Not Gatsby,” Nick said shortly, just as he had earlier.

“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.”

“I can tell you right now,” Nick answered. “He owned some drug stores, a lot of drug stores. He built them up himself.”

The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.

“Goodnight, Nick,” said Jordan, pressing a kiss to his cheek for appearances.

Nick blushed, still beaming. “Goodnight, Miss Baker,” he said dreamily; he took her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckle, and Daisy practically cooed.

“Goodnight, Nick!” Daisy bid him, smiling widely at the display.

Nick waited until their car was gone before he floated back up the steps and back inside, wandering to the garden to wait for Gatsby.


	8. Chapter 8

Nick seldom saw much of his own little cottage in the coming weeks. When he wasn’t at work, he would find himself with Gatsby. It didn’t matter where or when or even how, but Nick would find himself tangled up with Gatsby, his heart would fluttering. He wanted to spend every moment he could with him; evidently, Gatsby felt the same way about him, because he stole Nick away to be alone with him every minute he could. 

Gatsby was surprisingly calming; despite the beating of his heart every time Gatsby pressed a kiss to his lips, Nick wasn’t wrought with anxiety every minute of the day. It was easier to fall asleep at night and easier to get out of bed in the morning when his stomach wasn’t constantly tied in knots. Nick also found that Gatsby wasn’t exhausting; Nick could spend all day with him and never find himself wishing to be alone, as he always did with anyone else in the world. 

Of course, not everything was perfect. Daisy was still a loose end that needed tying off, and Gatsby didn’t seem to know who to go about it. He’d not called on her once since the party she’d attended; she’d come by once or twice, but each time she was told he was too busy to see her. Nick, too, was stressing himself sick over his own loose end back home. A tangle that he had to send a letter to every so often ending with _love, Nick._ He knew it would be easy to simply write her that he wouldn’t be coming back, that they simply couldn’t be, but he had a difficult time bringing himself to break someone’s heart, even if he didn’t have to see her face.

“How on earth did you get yourself into that kind of mess?” Gatsby had asked, amused, late one night as Nick relayed this to him.

“Well, mostly I just have a hard time saying no to people,” Nick had said, and Gatsby had laughed.

Daisy invited both Nick and Gatsby for lunch one day, several weeks after the party. As Nick listened to her over the phone and penned the details, he recalled a conversation he’d had with Jordan on one of the rare days she caught him in the city and pulled him on a date.

“They can absolutely never find out, I hope you know that,” she’d said sternly of the Buchanan’s. “You’ve met Tom; he’s not exactly open minded.”

Nick swallowed down the nerves he felt rising in his throat and tried to sound cheerful. “I’ll certainly try to be there.”

“Please, do,” Daisy had said softly, then abruptly hung up.

The day of the lunch was boiling. Through the hall of the Buchanan’s house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and Nick as they waited at the door. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols, weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.

“We can’t move,” they said together.

Jordan’s fingers rested for a moment in Nick’s; her gaze flickered from him, to Gatsby, and then she smiled knowingly and let go of Nick’s hand. He cleared his throat, trying not to blush. Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.

Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” he put out his broad, flat hand with well concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir… Nick…”

Nick regarded him politely as Daisy cried, “Make us a cold drink!”

As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby, and, before he could protest, pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.

“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan quickly, sitting up. Nick was staring at his shoes.

Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick, too.”

“Never with witnesses present,” Jordan declared, laying a hand on Nick’s, trying to lighten the mood. 

Daisy sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.

“Blessed precious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.”

The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.

“The Blessed precious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say How-de-do.”

Nick bent down and took the child’s reluctant hand, shaking it gently with a shy smile. “She’s lovely.”

Gatsby followed suit, shaking her small hand and offering her a gentle smile. “Lovely, indeed.”

“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.

“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.”

“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress, too.”

Jordan smiled at the mention of her name. 

“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

The child glanced over Gatsby once, then turned away to hide in Daisy’s dress again. “Where’s daddy?”

“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”

“She’s very lovely,” Nick said again.

Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.”

With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickey’s that clicked full of ice. 

“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun - or wait a minute - it’s just the opposite - the sun’s getting colder every year.”

Daisy held her glass in her trembling hand; her eyes were terrified. She glanced to Gatsby, who had his eyes on Nick. Nick glanced between the two of them. The tension was excruciating.

“I’m right across from you,” Gatsby said conversationally.

“So you are,” said Tom, unimpressed.

“It’s so hot!” Daisy exclaimed. She set her glass down and swept towards the sideboard. “Everything’s so confused!” 

She plucked a cigarette from a carved box, and fumbled with the lighter. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and for the next thirty years?”

“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “And everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”

Her nervous hands dropped the lighter; when it hit the ground, it made a louder sound than it should have in the tension. Gatsby, standing closest to her, bent down wearily and handed it back to her. She reached and grabbed his hand, holding it there, meeting his eye. 

“You look so cool,” she said softly, as though they were alone. “You always look so cool, like the advertisement of the man… in Times Square… The man in the cool, beautiful, shirts.”

She had told Gatsby that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan had seen. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little and he looked at Gatsby and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as some one he knew a long time ago. 

Gatsby peeled his hand away from her’s, trying not to look nervous over such a display. 

“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on - we’re all going to town.”

He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.”

His hand, trembling with his effort at self control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got them to finally stir. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let any one smoke a cigarette first? Let’s have fun. It’s too hot to fuss.”

Tom frowned. “It was your great idea, Daisy. Why don’t we!? We’ll all go to town!”

Daisy didn’t budge. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“You’ve got me all excited, and now you don’t want to go? We’ll get a great big room at the Plaza, a cold bucket of ice… It will be _fun_.”

“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”

They went upstairs to get ready while the three men stood outside shuffling the hot pebbles with their feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.

“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.

“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads - ”

“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.

“I’ll get some whiskey,” answered Tom. He went inside.

Gatsby turned to Nick rigidly:

“This is going terribly,” he said stiffly. “We should leave.”

Nick tried desperately for a moment to think of an excuse to leave; he couldn’t produce one. “We can’t.”

“We have to,” Gatsby insisted. “She kissed me, Nick. I’m sorry, I - ”

“It’s fine,” Nick said earnestly, well accustomed to how the Buchanan’s often dragged him about.

“And after that display in there - !” Gatsby added nervously

“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” Nick remarked, even though he’d seen exactly what the rest of them had. “It’s full of…” he hesitated.

“Her voice is full of money,” Gatsby said suddenly.

Nick regarded him for a moment. “That’s it,” he agreed. “It’s full of money. That’s the inexhaustible charm that rises and falls in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it…”

Gatsby smiled weakly at him. “Ever the writer, you are.”

Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.

“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. 

“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.

“Yes.”

“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”

The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected, even though he had just offered to drive. 

“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drug store. You can buy anything at a drug store nowadays.”

A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and that familiar look of misery passed over Gatsby’s face.

“Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”

He opened the door but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”

She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. “We’ll meet you at the Plaza! I’ll be the man on the corner smoking two cigarettes!”

Jordan and Tom and Nick got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively and they shot off into the oppressive heat leaving them out of sight behind.

“Did you see that?” demanded Tom.

“See what?” Nick asked calmly.

Tom looked at him keenly, realizing that Jordan and him must have known all along. “You must think I'm pretty dumb, don’t you? But I have a - an almost second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. And I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow.”

“And you found he was an Oxford man?” asked Jordan helpfully.

"Oxford, New Mexico!" Tom sneered. "The man wears a pink suit, for Christ sake!"

“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.

“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married - God knows where!” Tom exclaimed.

They were all irritable now with the fading ale and, aware of it, they drove for a while in silence. Nick crossed his legs at the ankles and stared, frustrated, at the passing scenery. Jordan laid a comforting hand on his knee. As Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, Nick remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.

He reminded Tom nervously, who scoffed. “We’ve got enough to get us to town.”

“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.”

Tom threw on both brakes impatiently and they slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment, the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car. 

“Wilson!” Tom shouted. “Wilson! What are you waiting for!? Let’s have some gas!”

Wilson and Tom carried on a short conversation that Nick didn’t listen to. Anxiety was still coating him, more so than usual. Jordan picked up on it. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said quietly. “I feel as though things are unraveling.”

“Don’t think like that,” Jordan said cooly. “Everything’s fine.”

“I’m sick,” Nick heard Wilson say weakly. “I’m all run down. I need money bad… My wife and I want to go West.”

Nick looked back at him curiously. 

“Your wife does?” Tom exclaimed, startled.

“She’s been talking about it for ten years,” He rested for a moment against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”

The coupé flashed by them with a flurry of dust and the flash of a waving hand.

“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.

“I just got wised up to something funny these last two days,” remarked Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering you about the car.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Dollar twenty.”

“You can have the car!” Tom shouted, tossing him the money; Wilson failed to catch it and it clattered to the ground. “I'll send it over tomorrow!”

The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding them into a room eluded Nick, though he had a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, his underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around his legs, and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across his back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that they hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as ‘a place to have a mint julep.’ Each of them said over and over that it was a ‘crazy idea’ - they all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that they were being very funny.

The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to them, fixing her hair.

“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed.

“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.

“There aren’t any more,” Nick told her politely.

“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe.”

“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table.

“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.”

There was a moment of silence. Nick and Jordan made eye contact and exchanged several faces that went undetected by the rest of their party. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered “Excuse me,” - but this time no one laughed.

“I’ll pick it up,” Nick offered.

“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered and tossed the book on a chair.

“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” asked Tom sharply.

Gatsby looked at him attentively. “What is?”

“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks, I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”

As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ball- room below.

“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.

“Still - I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered, “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”

“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.

“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes - that’s a fact - and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”

“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left, Daddy died.” After a moment she added, as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.”

“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” Nick remarked.

“That was his cousin,” Jordan said affectionately. She looked at him fondly for appearances and took his hand. “I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter that I use today.”

The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cheers and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.

“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young, we’d rise and dance.”

“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”

“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t. He was a friend of Daisy’s.”

“He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.”

“Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.”

Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.”

Tom and Nick looked at each other blankly.

“First place, we didn’t have any president - ”

Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”

Gatsby hesitated, obviously nervous. “Not exactly.”

Nick frowned and looked at him curiously; Gatsby was expertly avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, yes,” Tom pressed. “I understand you went to Oxford.”

“Yes. I went there.” Gatsby said stiffly.

A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”

Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice. The silence was unbroken by Nick’s ‘ _thank you_ ’ and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.

“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.

“I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”

“It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”

Nick’s eyes were fixed on Gatsby. A hint of a blush sought a place on his cheeks, making Nick indescribably hotter, if that were possible. 

Gatsby continued. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the Armistice. We could go to any of the universities in England or France.”

Nick visibly relaxed. He wanted to get up and kiss him. He had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that he’d experienced several times before.

Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whiskey, Tom,” she ordered. “And I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself.”

“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.”

“Go on,” Gatsby said politely, with his charming smile.

“What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house, anyhow?”

They were out in the open at last. The tension in the room tripled. Jordan squeezed Nick’s hand gently, not looking at him; she was holding her head up as she always did, not daring to move.

“He isn’t causing a row.” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self control.”

“Self control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out! Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white. Intermarriage between men! Disgusting.”

Dread pooled in Nick’s stomach so quickly he thought he might throw up. Tom’s gaze flickered to him, and for a moment, Nick feared he could see it on him. 

Gatsby was radiating nerves. He spoke slowly. “Mr. Buchanan, I don’t - ”

“I know I’m not very popular,” Tom continued. “I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends in the modern world.”

Nick bit the inside of his cheek. He was angry and frustrated and terrified and nervous all at the same time. This time, he squeezed Jordan’s hand.

“Please don’t!” Daisy said helplessly. “Please, let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?”

“That’s a good idea,” Nick said hurriedly. He got up hastily. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”

“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to say for himself,” Tom said lowly.

Gatsby looked as though he were choosing his words very carefully. Again, he spoke slowly. “Mr. Buchanan, I met your wife before the war. She’s lovely, but I’m not involved with her. At a time before you, I did love her. But I don’t anymore. She’s your wife. I don’t want to pursue her.”

Daisy looked horribly confused. “That’s not what you said.”

Tom’s attention snapped to her, while Gatsby stayed staring straight ahead. “It’s what I’m saying now.”

“This wasn’t the plan,” Daisy said, nearly hysteric.

“Plan?!” Tom barked, looking between them.

Jordan and Nick exchanged more faces that went unnoticed. He was still standing awkwardly while she sat watching them.

Gatsby stood cautiously. “There is no plan, now,” he said. “I was foolish, I shouldn’t have ever met with Daisy again. I’m sorry. I had no place here.”

“Oh, that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then, but I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door!”

Daisy ignored every word that he said, staring straight at Gatsby with a strange look of astonishment on her face. “You said you loved me.”

Gatsby looked at her earnestly. “I did,” he assured her softly. “I did, long ago. But I don’t anymore. And you don’t love me, you love Tom. That’s okay.”

“No!” Daisy exclaimed. “I do love you!”

“Daisy!” Tom said, and his voice was a strange mix of anger and hurt. 

“You’re revolting,” Daisy spat. She turned to Nick, who looked so startled he didn’t know what to do with himself. She took his hands; her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.”

“Daisy,” Nick said gently, trying to calm her down.

She looked over her shoulder to Gatsby, scowling. “I thought I could find refuge with you,” she said angrily. “I thought that’s what you were offering me. I told you I wished it could always be like that, and you said it would be. What changed?”

Gatsby was watching her with wide eyes; for a long moment, he didn’t respond. Daisy let go of Nick’s hands, stepping towards him. She raised her voice in a way she never did, and when she spoke it was a shrill sound. “ _What changed?!”_

“Daisy!” Tom exclaimed, standing up quickly.

Gatsby placed a hand on her shoulder, an arms length away from her, trying to keep her calm. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. His gaze flickered to Nick for a split second and then looked back to her. “She’s all excited now - ”

“Like hell you will!” Tom snapped.

“As if it matters to you,” she said angrily. She shrugged Gatsby’s hand off her shoulder and he retracted it immediately. “Is there someone else?”

Gatsby’s breath caught in his throat; Daisy keyed in on it, but before she could press him, Tom stepped toward her. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.”

Daisy tossed a glare at him. “You don’t understand. You’re not going to take care of me any more.”

“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. “Why’s that?”

“I’m leaving you,” she said, with visible effort.

“You’re not leaving me,” Tom said certainly. “Certainly not for a common swindler!”

Tom leered at Gatsby suddenly, ignoring Daisy’s presence between them. “Mr. Gatsby, who exactly are you, anyhow? You see, I have made a small investigation into your affairs… You're one of Meyer Wolfsheim’s bunch.”

He turned sharply to Nick and Jordan, who felt trapped and suffocated in the atmosphere of the scene. “See, he and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of 'drug stores' and sold bootlegged alcohol over the counter!”

Gatsby’s jaw was set hard; he took the bait. “What about it, old sport?”

Nick’s attention snapped to him, startled by his response. 

“Don’t call me ‘old sport!’” Tom shouted. “This drug store business is just small change compared to the bonds stunt you and Wolfsheim have got going on now!”

“Well your friend Walter Chase isn’t too proud to come in on it,” Gatsby said coldly.

“I’ve been giving that some thought,” Tom returned swiftly. “How does a reputable banker like Walter Chase find himself up to his eyeballs in debt to a man like Wolfsheim?”

“It’s called ‘greed,’ old sport.” Gatsby said lowly.

“Mr. Gatsby,” Nick said in a small voice, trying to keep this from escalating any further. Daisy was watching the exchanges between the two of them like someone watching a tennis match. Jordan’s eyes were fixed on something invisible on the wall; she anxiously refused to pay anyone attention.

“That’s right,” Tom snapped. “You’ve got half of Wall Street out there swilling your free booze at that fun park every weekend!” he pointed to Nick suddenly, accusingly. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to drag you in!”

Nick looked away sharply, a blush rising on his face. Tom lowered his hand, staring at him. “My, God, he has.”

“Don’t bring Mr. Carraway into this,” Gatsby said shortly.

Tom ignored him, turning to Daisy, who looked rightly terrified. “Daisy, can’t you see who this guy is?! With his house and his parties and his fancy clothes; he’s just a front for Wolfsheim, a gangster, to get his claws onto respectable folk like Walter!”

“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy emotionally. She turned back to Nick, taking his hands again. “Oh, please, let’s get out!” she begged helplessly.

“The only respectable thing about you, old sport, is your money,” Gatsby sneered, baited into making his point, now. Nick watched him nervously. “That’s it! And now, I’ve just as much as you. That means we’re _equal_!”

Tom smiled smugly. “Oh no, no, we’re different. I am,” he pointed to Nick and Jordan, “they are,” he pointed to Daisy, “she is.”

Gatsby’s face had taken on a flustered, furious expression. For a short moment, Nick really could believe that he had killed a man.

“Mr. Gatsby,” he warned again, trying to keep his tone formal. Jordan’s eyes flickered to him nervously.

“Please, Tom!” Daisy cried, holding Nick’s hands tight. “I can’t stand this anymore!”

Tom ignored her. “We’re all different from you - we were born different, it’s in our blood, and nothing you do, or say, or steal or dream up, can ever change that! And a girl like Daisy would _never_ \- !”

Gatsby exploded suddenly with a terrifying rage, reaching forward and grabbing Tom by his collar, screaming in his face, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! _SHUT UP!”_

“Jay!” Nick exclaimed tenderly, effectively slicing through the jolt of tension he had just inspired. Nick and Gatsby met eyes, and Gatsby suddenly sobered. He let go of Tom’s collar, straightening himself up, never once looking away from Nick.

Nick had told Gatsby that he loved him, and everyone had seen. They were astounded. Tom’s eyes shifted between them, and the quip on his tongue died as he adopted a disgusted expression. Daisy looked up at Nick, who refused to look anywhere but Gatsby’s face, and as she observed him and his blush and his gentle eyes, she quickly grew abhorred.

She ripped her hands out of his; when she spoke, she was disgusted. “Nick…”

There was a blush rising on Gatsby’s face, one to match Nick’s. “My sincerest apologies. I… I seem to have lost my temper.”

“ _You?”_ Tom spat in revulsion. He looked to Nick. “And _you?”_

Neither Nick nor Gatsby would look at him. They wouldn’t answer him. Their lack of a denial was confirmation in and of itself.

Jordan was the only one still sitting, and her eyes were wide in horror. Finally, she was the only one brave enough to speak, but her voice shook. “You two start on home, Nick,” she said, capturing everyone attention. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”

Nick looked at her, alarmed. “Jordan.”

“Go on,” she insisted, a knowing look in her eyes. “We won’t annoy you.” 

They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts even from their pity.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun was setting on New York as Gatsby and Nick neared the valley of ashes. They were both sitting in tense, anxious silence, neither of them quite sure what to say. It was still sweltering out, not quite as bad as it was during the heat of the day, but a mixture of shame and panic that brought blushes to both their faces was keeping them warm. Gatsby was driving fast, wild as he always did, which wasn’t doing much to help Nick’s anxiety; Gatsby, though, was evidently just as nervous, which was making him even worse of a driver than he usually was. 

As they neared Wilson’s garage, where Nick had stopped not so long ago, Myrtle suddenly rushed out the door. He sat up; it was hard to see in the dusk, but Myrtle was often hard to miss.

“Jay,” he said nervously. “Stop the car.”

She was waving her arms wildly, trying to get their attention. Gatsby didn’t take his foot off the gas pedal.

“Jay,” Nick said again. “You’re going to hit her.”

“I’ll go around her,” Gatsby said tightly.

“Jay, stop the car,” Nick said again; the garage was approaching fast. Gatsby didn’t respond. Nick sat up a little straighter, and then with a sudden surge of confidence he decided what he was going to do. 

“Jay, stop the car!” he exclaimed loudly, and to make sure he did just that he climbed up onto the back of Gatsby’s seat. They were going over fifty, which was too fast for Nick to be up out of his seat; panicked, Gatsby hit the breaks, and the car came to a halt in the middle of the road just in front of the garage.

Myrtle rushed to the side of the car, laying her hands on the door, peering at both of them wildly. “Where’s Tom?!”

“Never mind that,” Nick said, still sitting above Gatsby’s seat at an awkward angle; he was seated there, but his long legs were bent around him and still falling into the part of the seat he should have been in, and he was leaned forward to talk to her. Myrtle was looking up at him like she recognized his face, but couldn’t place his name. “Mrs. Wilson, you _should_ go west.”

“You know her?” Gatsby asked, looking up at him incredulously.

“No,” Myrtle pleaded; her face was stained with tears, her makeup running everywhere. “No, I want to stay here, I want to stay with Tom - !”

“Oh, fuck Tom!” Nick exclaimed, startling both of them.

Wilson came stumbling out of his garage. “Myrtle!”

She looked panicked at the two of them. “Please, take me with you!”

“No,” Nick insisted. “Mrs. Wilson, go west with your husband.”

“Nick, we need to go,” Gatsby said.

“No, I don’t want to,” Myrtle began to cry. “I don’t want to! I can’t!”

“Myrtle!” Nick said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “He hit you! He broke your nose! You’d love a man who broke your nose?! He’s never going to be with you! You’re a romp to him, you’re just his girl in the city! He doesn’t care about you!”

“Yes he does,” Myrtle cried. “Don’t lie to me! He’d marry me if he could get away from that horrible wife of his!”

“Daisy wants to get away from _him_!” Nick exclaimed. “I was just with the two of them in the city! Daisy was begging for a divorce and he wouldn’t hear of it!”

“Myrtle!” Wilson cried.

“Nick,” Gatsby said again. “We need to _go.”_

“Go west,” Nick urged her. “Go far west and never come back to New York, never speak to Tom Buchanan again!”

“Tom Buchanan?” Wilson stopped, puzzled, a few paces away from the car. “What about Tom Buchanan?”

Nick pointed at him. “Tom Buchanan has been making love to your wife!” he shouted, and Myrtle made a startled little noise and Wilson looked as though he may collapse and die right there in the road. 

Gatsby grabbed the cloth of Nick’s shirt near his waist. “ _Nick.”_

“He’s been making love to your wife in the city! They have an apartment! And a dog!” Nick continued, nearly climbing out of the car. “He bought her those pearls! And he’s never going to sell you anything! He’s keeping you on a string so he has a reason to keep coming by to see her!”

“Nick!” Gatsby said loudly, and he turned and pulled Nick back down into the passenger seat by his shirt, and as soon as he fell into the seat they shot off, leaving the sniveling, bickering couple in the middle of the road.

“Why did you do that?!” Gatsby shouted over the wind.

Nick looked so flustered, his long legs bent in an awkward position from when he’d landed in the seat. “I don’t know.”

They drove in stunned silence for a long moment, before Nick suddenly broke it. “It’s my birthday.”

“What?” Gatsby asked, looking at him.

“It’s my birthday,” Nick repeated. “I’m thirty.”

When they arrived back at Gatsby’s, they both sat in the car for a long time after the engine had been turned off. Neither of them knew quite what to say. Nick replayed the events of the day over and over in his mind, each time making himself feel sicker and sicker. 

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Gatsby said, breaking the silence, “thinking about it like that.”

Nick blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Did you see the way she looked at me?”

“Who?” Gatsby asked. “Mrs. Wilson?”

Nick shook his head. “Daisy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve known her all my life. She looks at everything like it’s new and fresh and beautiful. Like it’s lovely. She looked at me like I was lovely, even though I’m not really. But tonight she looked at me… like I was the first disgusting thing she’d ever laid eyes on.”

Gatsby watched him for a long time, unsure what to say. “You are lovely.”

Gatsby’s house had never seemed so enormous to Nick as it did that night when they hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. They pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches. Once, Nick tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere and the rooms were musty as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. Nick found the humidor on an unfamiliar table with two stale dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, they sat smoking out into the darkness.

“Nick,” Gatsby said gently, not looking at him. “Darling. There’s something I need to tell you.”

It was this night that he told Nick the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody - told it to him because ‘Jay Gatsby’ had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice and the long secret extravaganza was played out. Nick listened silently and smoked his cigarette and refused to comment until Gatsby had finished his tale, finished telling him who he was; who _James Gatz_ was. 

“I’m sorry,” Gatsby said. “I should’ve told you the first night I kissed you. I should have told you weeks and weeks ago. But you didn’t become infatuated with James Gatz, you became infatuated with Jay Gatsby. I didn’t want to lose that.”

Nick put his cigarette out and sighed. Gatsby looked down. “You’re upset.”

“No,” Nick said lightly; he sounded very tired. “No, I’m not upset.”

Gatsby looked at him curiously. “Why not?”

“You should know by now I don’t make judgements,” Nick said, looking at him earnestly.

Gatsby frowned. “Surely that can’t be true,” he said. “ _Everyone_ makes judgements.”

“I don’t lie,” Nick said soberly. “Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.”

Gatsby smiled at him. “What’s your opinion of me, Nick?”

“My opinion of James Gatz?” Nick asked. He stood up out of his chair and moved over to Gatsby. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

Nick sank down into his lap. “My opinion of Jay Gatsby?” he asked, leaning in close to him. “I am deeply, irrevocably in love with him.”

Nick kissed him, deeply, and Gatsby nearly melted. They stayed like that for a long moment, kissing tenderly in the dim light only provided by the recent shaped moon. Nick’s heart was beating fast; he was so happy, so content with himself and his life at that very moment. He never wanted to stop kissing Gatsby, he never wanted this warm feeling to dissipate. Nick wanted to fall in love with Gatsby every day of his life; he couldn’t imagine how he ever went to bed contented before he had known the taste of his lips.

Nick broke the kiss, only because he needed to breathe, but as he caught his breath Gatsby pressed little kisses to his neck and his jaw. Nick’s heart stuttered and he smiled; his face was warm with a blush, but he wasn’t embarrassed, he was just in love.

“I adore you,” Gatsby said breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you so much, Nick.”

“I love you, too,” Nick said quietly. “I love you, too, Jay. I want to say it a million times.”

“But then how would I ever kiss you?” Gatsby asked, smiling.

Nick fell into another kiss as Gatsby wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him close. After a moment, Gatsby broke the kiss and smiled devilishly at him. “It’s your birthday.”

“It is my birthday,” Nick said, reaching up and touching Gatsby’s face. “I’m thirty years old. God, Jay, you are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

Gatsby blushed. “I wish I’d known beforehand.”

“That you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen?” Nick asked with a smile.

Gatsby chuckled. “I have nothing planned in terms of gifts.”

Nick hummed, giving him a chaste kiss. “You’re my present.”

“Oh…” Gatsby said quietly as Nick kissed him again, much deeper this time. They kissed until they were both out of breath, and then they sat quietly, pressed together, panting and drinking each other in.

“Although,” Nick finally said, piquing Gatsby’s interest. “If you’re instant on getting me a gift, I… do have one idea.”

“What’s that?” Gatsby asked coyly.

Nick didn’t answer him; instead, he rolled his hips gently, and the two of them each let out a quiet little moan. Gatsby reached up to cup Nick’s face, looking at him affectionately. “I like that idea.”

Nick blushed deeply, leaning down and hiding his face in the crook of Gatsby’s neck. “I hoped you would.”

In the morning, light streamed in gracefully through the windows of Gatsby’s room, stirring Nick awake. Gatsby, used to the light, kept his arm wrapped around Nick’s waist, holding him close. Nick opened his eyes sleepily and oriented himself, then smiled blissfully when he remembered where he was and who he was with.

Nick gazed out the window, and across the sunny bay he could see Tom and Daisy’s beautiful house, and anxiety rooted itself in every crevice of his body.

“Don’t think about that, darling,” Gatsby murmured, startling Nick. He ran a hand over Nick’s bare stomach, which made him shiver, and then he pulled him by his hip until Nick was on top of him straddling him.

Gatsby pulled him down into a kiss, and they stayed like that, kissing languidly. Gatsby’s hands roamed over his body, sinking lower and lower, and Nick’s mind had just began to wander towards more lewd thoughts, when there was a knock at the door.

They mutually broke the kiss, looking at the same time to the door, which creaked open ever-so-slightly. Gatsby’s butler stepped halfway into the room, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and he said, “Pardon me, Mr. Gatsby, but there is a young lady at the entrance asking for your assistance.”

“Yes, I’ll be there in a moment,” Gatsby told him politely, and then he stepped out and shut the door.

Nick was blushing so hard, he couldn't speak, but Gatsby pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw and said, “You don’t need to worry about Herzong,” he assured him. “You know he has a man he calls his husband who he’s been together with for fifty years?”

Nick smiled at that, but refrained from commenting.

Jordan was sitting on the marble steps outside the front door, looking dejected. He head was in her hand, and next to her feet rested a single bag. Nick and Gatsby both came to find her there, and when she looked up and saw both of them, she looked a little less miserable.

“I was hoping I would find you here,” she said to Nick quietly.

Nick didn’t answer her; he rushed down the steps to help her to her feet, and when she stood he rested a hand gently on her cheek, fixated on the bruise there. It looked as though someone had slapped her.

“Jordan,” he said, and his voice was gentle but there was something hard behind it. “Did Tom do this?”

Tears prickled in Jordan’s eyes. “I wish Tom had done this,” she said miserably. “It would have hurt my heart much less.”

Nick held her in a hug, and pretended not to notice when his shoulder grew wet with her tears. 

He took her bag, and Gatsby led her inside and assured her she could stay there as long as she had business in New York. They ate breakfast in silence, none of them knowing quite what to talk about, until finally Jordan seemed to return to her coy nature. “You seem as though you had a good night last night, Nick?”

Nick blushed deeply. “Oh, uh - ”

“You know, yesterday was his birthday,” Gatsby said conversationally.

“Was it?” Jordan asked, looking at him knowingly. “I had no idea. How old are you now, Nick?”

Nick, flustered, struggled to speak. “Thirty.”

Jordan hummed. They lapsed into silence once again, until she asked, “Have you written all this down yet, Nick?”

Nick tilted his head. “Written it down?”

“Yes,” Jordan said. “You’ve been penning all this, haven’t you?”

“No?” Nick said. “Why would I?”

“For your novel,” Jordan reminded him, incredulous. “You’ve been writing everything down as it’s been happening, haven’t you?”

Nick’s eyes widened, and he suddenly remembered he hadn’t touched his so-called manuscript since he brought it home with him from the morning he spent with Jordan. 

“Your novel,” Gatsby asked, “it’s based on real life?”

“It’s autobiographical.” Jordan said matter-of-factly. “He started writing it the night he had his date with what’s-his-name.”

“A date?” Gatsby inquired, looking at Nick curiously.

“No!” Nick said quickly. “No, no, it - it wasn’t a date at all.”

“They met at a party he was at with Tom’s girl in New York,” Jordan explained, despite Nick’s stammering. “Nick got drunk for the first time in his life and had sex with him.”

“No I didn’t!” Nick exclaimed, his face burning. Gatsby was watching him, amused. “I didn’t! I - he - he just - we didn’t have _sex._ And it was the second time I ever got drunk.”

“He wrote the whole thing down for me,” Jordan said. “Took up nine full pages. I told him he was gonna write a queer romance story, and he was gonna be the protagonist.” She looked strikingly at Gatsby. “I guess that makes you his love interest.”

Gatsby smiled at Nick affectionately. “I guess it does.”

Nick continued to blush, when Jordan reached across the table and took his hand. “Where’s your manuscript, Nick? Have you worked on it at all?”

“It’s still at my house,” Nick admitted. “I haven’t touched it.”

“Well, go touch it!” Jordan exclaimed. “Can I watch you work on it? It’s so fun to watch you write.”

“Of course,” Nick said. 

Gatsby looked as though he were about to ask if he could join, but Herzong appeared at his side. “Sir, Chicago on the line.”

“Of course,” Gatsby said, standingto follow him. “You write, Nick. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

The completed manuscript, which Nick holds in his hands now, is ninety-six full pages long. It took him five days to write, little time considering how fervent he was each time he sat down at his desk to resume the story. Jordan read each chapter as he completed it, reveling every time she was mentioned.

“Why do you keep talking about my chin?” she asks. “I don’t do anything weird with my chin.”

“Yes, you do,” Nick says, smiling. He tilts his chin up the way she always does. “You sit like this.”

“I do not!” Jordan cries, laughing. 

“You do, to!” Nick insists. “You sit like that all the time. Like you’re balancing something invisible on you’re chin and you’re scared to drop it.”

Jordan walks across the lawn back to Gatsby’s with Nick, who carries the completed manuscript in his hands. It feels odd to him, a weight of his life in the past four months. So much has happened in such little time; he wonders how much could possibly happen for the rest of his life. 

Nick sits with Gatsby alone on his bed while he reads it. His heart seizes with every little laugh and every smile and every frown. He has to restrain himself from asking what part he’s at every time Gatsby reacts to anything. 

“You’ve gone on about my smile for quite some time, here,” Gatsby says. 

“You have a lovely smile,” Nick insists.

“Do I really say old sport this much?” Gatsby asks.

“For a long while I thought you didn’t even know my first name,” Nick admits.

“Nick,” Gatsby says affectionately once he’s finished it. “Darling, that was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever read.”

Nick blushes, smiling. “Thank you,” he says. “I can’t publish it, but I’m glad you like it.”

“We’ll get it printed with a proper cover,” Gatsby promises, setting the clipped stack of papers aside and pulling Nick into a kiss. “What are you going to title it? The title has to be perfect, it’s your premier work. The best novel in the world; the loveliest thing ever written. What are you going to call it, darling?”

Nick smiles. “The Great Gatsby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus happier happy ending!!! : i like to think this takes place in a different universe than our own, one where the great depression doesn't necessarily happen. the stock market still crashes, but it's not as severe, and not everyone rushes to the banks to withdrawal all their money, thus the banks don't fail, so the stock market was able to stabilize itself and millions of people didn't lose all their money. im sure the great depression is much more complicated than that, and that wouldn't fix everything, but if i wrote this knowing what happens in 1929 it would just make me way too sad!!!
> 
> if you liked this, please leave a comment!!!! i've so enjoyed writing this so if you enjoyed reading it, please let me know!!!!


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